


A Quest of Salt and Smoke

by whiskey_ink



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is annoyed, Bronn is along for the ride, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Here we fucking go, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Road Trip, Season 9 Fic, Slow Burn, So does Brienne, beep beep, exes to friends to lovers, fic born from the salt of my tears and the smoke of my hope, get in loser we're going questing, he's got a happy ending to find, jaime is a fool but we love him, jaime lannister is alive clown club, like who puts a one-armed man in a boat, pod is a good bro, the Hound points out all the stupid S8 shit, the hound is sick of this shit, we're gonna fix this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_ink/pseuds/whiskey_ink
Summary: "Jaime was alive. The cold, wet ground he lay upon and the deafening roar of waves crashing on a nearby shore made him painfully aware of that fact. He was also stark naked and laying in a cave identical to the one where he’d conversed with the Gods. But that was not what caught Jaime’s immediate attention.In the light of the lamps dotted around the cave, Jaime could see that those werenot his feet."To save the world from the twisted ambitions of the Three-Eyed Raven, the Gods choose a champion to carry the torch of Azor Ahai and reforge Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. Of all the souls waiting in the halls of the Stranger, only Jaime fits the bill. Now, he and his companions must journey north to unravel the secrets of the Great Other before the world is plunged into darkness once more.





	1. Jaime I

**Author's Note:**

> And maybe, I'll find out  
> a way to make it back someday  
> To watch you, to guide you  
> through the darkest of your days  
> If a great wave shall fall  
> and fall upon us all  
> Then I hope there's someone out there who  
> can bring me back to you
> 
> -Wherever You Will Go,  
> The Calling

# Jaime I

Jaime Lannister was dead. Of that much, he was certain. The aches that had slowly settled in his bones over the past decade were gone, to say nothing of the searing pain of Greyjoy’s stab wounds or the blinding agony of his last seconds in the rockfall.

In fact, he couldn’t feel his body at all. It would have been a blessing, if not for the distractingly bright light growing in the distance.

He’d heard Snow’s account of what it felt like to be dead, and nowhere had an irritating ruddy glow been featured. Neither, come to think of it, had that odd buzzing sound.

It took Jaime a minute to remember how to open his eyes, disconnected from his body as he was. When one finally cracked open, the light was almost unbearable. It burned brighter than the funeral pyre after the Long Night- brighter even than the Dragonfire that had threatened to engulf him when he tilted at Drogon.

Jaime tried to raise a hand to cover his eyes, but found his voice before his limbs.

“Turn that bloody light out, or I swear to the gods I’ll-”

“You’ll do what, exactly? Pray tell, it’s been a while since you’ve sworn an oath to _me._ ” A voice bellowed, resonating with the same brilliance of the light, shimmering with mirth. Jaime groaned, head ringing.

“Oh, all right. I’ve had my fun.” This time the words were spoken at a reasonable volume, and the light dimmed to match. Jaime was finally able to fully open both his eyes and focus on the world beyond.

Above him, a ceiling of some pale marble glittered in firelight, cast all in pinks and golds. Turning his face to the side, he saw his own reflection on the wet floor.

A young man stared back, a proud lion, golden and beautiful. A whole man. His right arm ended in a hand once more.

_Death isn’t so bad, so far_ , Jaime thought.

“This isn’t death. You are currently only _mostly_ dead.”

Jaime scrambled to sit up. A few feet in front of was sat a hooded figure, sitting on a large chunk of the same rock that made up the walls and ceiling, fiddling with a smaller piece of it.

Jaime’s lips twisted into a scowl. “I take that back. If you can read my mind, then I am not so happy to be here. Where’s the eternal darkness I was promised?”

The figure stood, pacing the cavern. It was then that Jaime realised that the light was emanating from somewhere beneath that great cloak.

“Snow was dead for days. You’ve been in darkness for almost three moons. It’s not my fault you slept through the experience.”

“It’s your fault that I woke up, though,” Jaime grumbled, wondering if he could just go back to sleep. He didn’t want to talk to this being with a light shining out of its arse or attempt to untangle the myriad emotions he felt stirring in his breast at the thought of being dead.

“Your time had come.”

“Time for what? I’m dead. I think I’m off the hook for whatever it is.” Jaime examined his right hand. It felt foreign to him now, as strange as the absence of a hand had felt when he was alive. Rubbing his fingers together, he felt something gritty give way between them.

_Salt_ , he thought. He wasn’t in a cave at all, at least, not one made of rocks. It was a vast deposit of salt. _The world of the dead is certainly odd, I’ll give it that._

“This isn’t the realm of the dead,” the cloaked figure noted conversationally.

“Would you stop digging around in my head?” Jaime snapped.

“Believe me, I’m not digging. I don’t want to wade through all the shit going on in there. Your thoughts are just exceptionally loud. You’re really quite obnoxious.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jaime sneered. “You’re rather insufferable too. Are you some demon charged with punishing me for my crimes? Because you’re no match for Tyrion when it comes to trading insults.”

“Demon?” The figure turned, hood falling back to reveal a face so beautiful and terrible it made Jaime want to cry. “I am the Gods, boy.”

It took a moment for Jaime to find his voice.

“The Seven?”

The deity smirked. “Those, and others. Just as seven is one, and one is seven, _all_ the gods are one. The Gods of Essos, and of the North, and of the Andals, and every other land where humans _believe_.”

Jaime took a moment to consider this strange being before him.

Each time he blinked; the features of that terrible visage seemed to have changed. Though still beautiful, it was a different face entirely to the one that had been revealed when the hood first fell. It was like a dream, where details shift, and the fabric of reality is as fluid as a fast-flowing river.

And yet, this did not feel like a dream. As the Gods continued to carve the salt with a golden blade, Jaime took stock of the situation.

He was only _mostly_ dead. He was having an audience with the gods. And all he had were questions.

He was so out of his depth, he might as well be resting at the bottom of the Blackwater. But Jaime mustered the bravado he had so often relied upon in life.

“I’m hardly devout, but I thought that most of those religions were based around two gods- one of light, and one of dark. Life and death. Are you both of those too?”

“I am Life and I am Death, at least when in the guise of the Stranger. My counterpart in Asshai culture is subject to some misinterpretations. I believe that of which you speak is the Other.” The Gods considered the carving in their hands with a pensive expression, turning it over and over.

“I was thought into being by the Children of the Forest, by their belief in the spirits of nature. The First Men had their own religion, told their own stories, and I grew to encompass those too. In return for humanity’s belief, I hold onto its memory after they are gone. The souls of the worthy departed are welcome in my halls. I sustain them, and I, in turn, am sustained by the belief of the living.

“Life and death are not opposites. They are stages of the same cycle, spokes on the same wheel. Death must come to all living things; it clears the path for new life. The Other aims to dismantle the wheel. It is darkness, it is nothing. It is the absence of life itself, and without life, there can be no death. Where I have been given form and power by the faiths of humans, the Other is shapeless, formless dark. That entity is my enemy.”

“How can _nothing_ be a danger?” Jaime scoffed. Surely this all-powerful deity could not be threatened by a… shade.

“The same way _no one_ can,” the Gods laughed at their own jape, but seeing that Jaime did not understand, sighed before explaining; “Arya Stark served me, as the Stranger, by destroying the Night King; the champion of the Great Other, just as the Last Hero did aeons ago. But the threat has not passed. The Red Star bleeds- the blood of Lannisters and Dragons and the city destroyed by their quarrel. Now, the mantle of the champion of the Darkness falls to the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Jaime felt sickness roil in his gut. All the death and destruction of the Long Night, it had been for nothing? The identity of the new villain was even more disturbing. 

“The Three-Eyed Raven… you mean Bran Stark?”

The Gods frowned. “He is no longer that boy. The body that was his now hosts the spirit which serves the Dark. He may not be able to raise an army of corpses to destroy all that is alive, but he has no need for that. As King, he commands the living.”

“They made him King?!” _Fuck._ That had Tyrion written all over it.

“He can sit upon his throne for the next thousand years- for he is not mortal, himself- and deconstruct the realm of men, piece by piece. He knows all. He controls all. He need not extinguish the light when it is his to rule. The gods of light and life will be forgotten, and when that last memory fades, the darkness will triumph. Nothing will grow, no children will be born. The halls of the Stranger will crumble, and the memory of man will rest solely in the raven’s claws. Then, there will be silence.”

At first, it seemed strange that one servant of this Great Other should kill the other. Then again, perhaps thirst for power was not a singularly human condition.

Jaime remembered what Bran had said at Winterfell- the Night King was coming for him. Maybe if he had stayed beyond the Wall, the White Walkers would never have entered the realm of men. Jaime’s blood became ice as he realised that, perhaps, humanity had been a pawn in the power struggle between the servants of the Great Other. The Raven, or whatever that creature was, had brought the Dead south and used his connections through Bran to muster an army. With his enemy dead, he had then sat safely in Winterfell whilst the remainder of that army won him dominion over Men in the name of his terrible god.

The Three Eyed Raven had played the game of thrones and won without so much as lifting a finger.

The irony was not lost on Jaime. Panic, too, was creeping in; fear for the people he had sacrificed his good name to save, for the boy he had tried to kill for love.

Once more, he had helped trade one tyrant ruler for another. This time, the Gods themselves were at risk.

“Is there no way to save him; to save us all?” _To save those he had left behind._

“The Prince that was Promised is the only one that can stand against the dark. With a burning sword, the Red Sword of Heroes, the darkness shall flee before him.”

“A burning sword…” The memory of a long-ago dream, born in the mires of the Riverlands, stirred in the corners of his mind. Dread replaced panic as he understood why he was only _mostly dead._ “Oh, no. No way.”

“Fortunately, the Lord of Light believes you have a chance to save the world from this fate.” 

“Are there no others that could do this? Arya Stark slew the Night King; can’t she do this too?”

“Oh, there are plenty that _could,_ but none of them had the kindness to die at such a convenient time,” the Gods said, sounding far too jovial to be discussing the end of the world. “Besides, they will be more useful to you in their current incarnations than they would have been as Azor Ahai.” The god’s lips tugged up in a smile. “Your actions allowed the Raven to possess the body of Brandon Stark. It is only right that you should be the one to undo your mistake.”

Gods, he had wanted so badly to atone for that sin. Speaking to Bran had been unsatisfactory _\- I want nothing_. Now, those words echoed with menace. Now, Jaime was rueing his former desire to right his wrongs.

“How, then? How will I do this?”

The Lord of Light, as Jaime now knew the figure represented, was silent for a moment, contemplating the carving in his hands. When he began to speak, he turned away and walked towards one of the cavern walls. Upon it, he traced runes that Jaime could not read.

“After thirty days and thirty nights, you left the comfort of the place that had become your home, drowning the sword in the rain that fell.

After fifty days and fifty nights, you died beside your queen, the blood of lions pooling beneath the blade.

And now, after one hundred days and one hundred nights, your sword has been found in the rubble and given to Ser Brienne of Tarth. Her heart bleeds for you and all you could have been. The sacrifice is made. You will be reborn as Azor Ahai, and claim your sword, which will henceforth be known as Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.”

Plucking a candle from the wall, the Lord of Light extinguished the flame with a breath shook the whole cavern. Darkness gathered in its place, but the red light emitted by the deity was just enough for Jaime to see as the salt figure was held aloft.

It was a man; he could now see. The Lord of Light held the quenched candle beneath the idol and allowed the black smoke to caress the salt, turning it to grey.

When he spoke again, the voice of all the Gods echoed around the cavern.

“When the Red Star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. Wielding Lightbringer once again, Azor Ahai will stand against the darkness, aided by those who died fighting in his cause. If he fails, the world fails with him.”

Jaime fell to his knees, grasping at the slick floor beneath him, which seemed to be growing less substantial with every passing second. It felt as though he had asked a thousand questions, but knew less than he had when he had first awoken.

“But what do I _do_?”

The body of the Gods burned red, the colour of battlefields at dawn, and the voice echoed once more.

“Retrieve your sword and gather your companions. Travel North until you reach the Tree. There, at the place where it all began, you will find the key to defeating the darkness.”


	2. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't be scared  
> You'll never change what's been and gone  
> Don't be scared  
> Your destiny may keep you warm
> 
> 'Cause all of the stars  
> Are fading away  
> Take what you need  
> And be on your way  
> And stop crying your heart out  
> -Stop Crying Your Heart Out,  
> Oasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos!

# Jaime II

Jaime was alive. The cold, wet ground he lay upon and the deafening roar of waves crashing on a nearby shore made him painfully aware of that fact.

He was also stark naked and laying in a cave identical to the one where he’d conversed with the Gods. At his feet lay the smouldering remains of the idol the Gods had whittled into being. But that was not what caught Jaime’s immediate attention.

In the light of the lamps dotted around the cave, Jaime could see that those were _not his feet._

They were a little thicker, the toes a little shorter than the ones that had carried him across the world and back for the past forty years or so. The hair that dusted his ankles and toes was darker than any that had covered his body previously.

He sat up, scrambling around with fingers that were less graceful than what he had been expecting.

He was still short four fingers and a thumb. Where previously his right wrist had been a mess of scar tissue and oddly shaped outcroppings of bone, this new arm simply _ended._ Jaime had heard of children born with defects that left them short of limbs, and it seemed his rebirth had resulted in similar. Where his arm ended was simply smooth skin, as though it was meant to end there. The phantom itch that had plagued him since the loss of his hand was gone. That, at least, was a blessing.

The one hand he had been given was almost as odd. Pale skin, black hair, calloused as though he had been training all his life, yet utterly free of scars.

Jaime sat up and stared into the salted pool he lay in. Once the ripples calmed, he gasped at the reflection he saw there.

_That was not his face._

“I look like _Jon fucking Snow_!”

Jaime scraped the fingers of his left hand through the thick black hair that hung round his shoulders, making his pale skin appear even more sallow. The only feature that had carried over from his previous life was his eyes. Still bright, still green, though the shape of the socket they rested in was slanted differently.

_Eyes are the windows to the soul_ ; Cersei had told him once, assuring them that their identical irises were more evidence of their shared spirit.

“How come you get a new fucking face and I’m stuck with this battered mug?”

The voice came from the shadows and Jaime started, disrupting the unfamiliar reflection so it could no longer taunt him.

Out of the darkness stepped The Hound, face even more disfigured than the last time they had met. It looked like his face had encountered an anvil as well as a furnace.

“Take it up with the Gods, not me,” Jaime croaked, voice deeper than it had ever been. “I quite liked the face I had before.” 

“At least it’s still a pretty one. I was looking forward to death before I was dragged back to guard your golden arse. Though, I suppose it isn’t so golden anymore.”

“That, I can sympathise with. Just like that sanctimonious bastard of a god to give us the opposite of what we desired.”

The Hound grinned, scars twisting to throw new shadows across his visage, reminiscent of the changing face of the Gods. “Did you ever entertain the idea that the Gods had a twisted sense of humour?”

Jaime nodded. “If I entertained the notion that they existed at all.”

“They are what you believe. If you’d imagined your god as a blushing virgin, then you’d have had a more pleasant experience at the Gate.”

“Is that what you saw?”

Clegane’s ugly face twisted into a grimace. “I saw fire.”

Jaime didn’t push further than that, focussing instead on the changes to his stump. “At least you’ve retained your wonderful personality, unlike your brother after his rebirth.”

“That cunt was animated by dark magic, not the Lord of Light. There was nothing alive about him. I saw the maggots crawl from his broken body after I dragged him from the top of the Red Keep.”

“Ah.” So that explained the new topography of the Hound’s face. “So, what, you just woke up on the flagstones and carried on with your day?”

“I’ve spent enough time with the Brotherhood without Banners to know how resurrection works,” the Hound said with a shrug. “I saw a read cloak disappearing into the shadow before I crawled beneath the nearest loadbearing doorframe and waited for the fires to burn themselves out.”

“Very brave. Very heroic.” 

From the satchel at his side, Clegane removed a bundle of fabric and tossed it at Jaime’s face. “Get dressed. I’m sick of staring at your eunuch’s crotch.”

Jaime let out gasp better suited to a maiden as he glanced down, frantically patting at his crotch. The panic did not subside, even after he ascertained that he had, indeed, been blessed with a cock in this new body.

Clegane’s laughter shook the cave, water dripping from stalactites with the force of it. Jaime wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard the bastard laugh before.

“Very funny,” Jaime muttered, pulling on the breeches he’d been offered. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying themselves.”

The Hound’s teeth glinted in the dim light. “You should cheer up then, you miserable fuck. You’ll be seeing your lady knight again soon.”

“Did you consider that may be precisely why I not looking forward to our arrival in the North? Things didn’t end well between us.”

“The North? We’re bound for King’s Landing first, where your Ser Brienne commands the Kingsguard.” Jaime’s newly formed stomach nearly dropped to the briny floor, along with his stubbled jaw. “That’s right. The wheel turns, and now another knight must draw a sword against the king they are sworn to protect. Perhaps the Gods do have a sick sense of humour after all.”

Jaime nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Perhaps you had better tell me what else I missed whilst dead, before the Gods see fit to throw it in my face.”

*

The first rays of sunlight were glinting over the water before Clegane deemed Jaime all caught up on the affairs of the Kingdom and ready to embark upon their journey.

The first obstacle of this quest that Jaime didn’t want to partake in was getting off the tiny island he had been reborn upon. Clegane had sailed a small boat to meet him, but the waters had grown choppy, and the Hound tired.

“I rowed here, you can bloody well row us back.”

“I’ve only got one hand!” He waved the stump under the Hound’s nose in case it wasn’t clear.

“Wasn’t going to stop you when you tried to escape the city with your sister.”

“I-” Jaime paused, staring at the point where his right wrist ended. He remembered the last time he had been in a boat, years before, with Bronn. He hadn’t been able to row then, either. “Would you believe I never even thought of that at the time?”

“I would, because I know you’re a fucking idiot. Your brother, however, should have considered it.”

“Perhaps he planned for Cersei to row.”

The Hound gave Jaime an incredulous stare, and after a moment they both laughed.

How strange, that the first laugh Jaime’s new body would expel would be shared with Sandor Clegane, and be about his dead twin, of all things.

There was a lingering ache in his breast where all his life, his connection to Cersei had been anchored, but her death was not as devastating as he had expected it to be. Perhaps such a loss took time for the mind to truly comprehend. Perhaps he had already lost her, long ago. Though she had always been the most important person in his life, he knew that the woman he had loved as a sister and a wife had been gone for a long time. He had mourned her on the road North; he had returned out of love for and a duty to the people they had once been.

Now their bodies rested together, but their souls had diverged. Jaime hoped that wherever Cersei’s spirit was now, she was finally at peace.

Although, even if she had found herself in Hell, that was probably preferable to his current situation.

“Fine,” the Hound groused, finally breaking the stalemate, “we’ll share the work. One oar each. It’ll be good exercise for your sword-arm.”

Leaving the small island felt like what Jaime thought fledgeling birds must experience when they flew the nest for the first time. His arms and shoulders protested as the boat was dragged into the water, like wings that were not yet ready to support flight. Beyond that far horizon was a world he no longer knew, labouring under some new order and filled with terrors without a form.

Or maybe he was like an adult bird trying to return to a nest that he was now too big for. One wrong step and everything would crumble beneath his feet; snapping twigs and falling, falling, falling like the masonry that had ended his life. _You can’t go home again,_ Aunt Genna had used to say, but Jaime had never quite understood until this moment.

He focussed on the burn in his shoulders and forced the memories out of his mind.

It took a while for the two men to find their rhythm, neither willing to adjust to the other’s pace. They argued, spinning in slow circles until they finally agreed to meet in the middle. Then, they rowed in silence as the sun rose steadily over the horizon, painting the sea and the sky the colour of blood.

_A bad omen if I ever saw one_ , Jaime thought. He didn’t voice his fears, but asked Clegane to stop rowing so they could take a break for water.

The Hound passed the skin, which Jaime was concerned to find was almost empty. It was also wine, not water. If they didn’t make landfall soon, they’d have worse problems than fatigue and muscle cramps.

“We’ll be there before sundown,” Clegane assured him when he asked how much farther there was to row. “Just enough time for you to think of a name.”

“A name?”

The Hound’s ugly face twisted into a sneer once more. “You can’t use a dead man’s name. You’ll need to pick a new one.”

“Ah. I suppose I will.” 

Gods. For year’s he’d been called names that were less than complimentary; _Kingslayer, Oathbreaker. Sister-fucker._ Even Lannister was felt like something of a slur, despite the pride he would always carry for his house. Now he had the chance to start over, to choose a name that didn’t sting like salt in a wound, and he could think of nothing. 

He wanted a _good_ name this time. All the forenames he considered were borrowed from those he had admired or cared about in his former life. _Arthur? Duncan? …Brian?_ It felt like theft to use the name of somebody so much better than him.

_Jaime_ it would have to remain.

He turned the titles the Gods had used over in his mind. Azor Ahai. The Last Hero. The Prince that was Promised.

Promises. Oaths. So many he had broken over the course of his former life. This one, he would keep.

“Prince,” he decided.

“Huh?” The Hound grunted.

“I’ll be Jaime Prince. Jai for short, or if I’m in danger of being recognised.”

“No chance of anyone mistaking you for a Lannister now,” Clegane snorted, “but it’ll work. Fucking pretentious though. _Prince.”_ He scoffed at Jaime’s choice, and the fact that it riled The Hound was enough to commend the name.

The satisfaction was enough to inject a little of Jaime’s old cockiness into this new form.

“If I’m going to save the world, I need a name that’ll look good in the history books.”

He probably deserved that blow from the oar to the back of his head.

Jaime came round to find that The Hound was making much faster work of rowing alone than they had when working together. Despite the extra effort he was extending, the ugly bastard was grinning from ear to ear. Well, the places where his ears should have been.

“I’m glad I got to be the first one to put a dent in that new head of yours. I imagine there’s quite a queue for the honour.”

Jaime rubbed at the goose-egg swelling. “I’ll let you have that one for free, but the next time you take a swing at me, I’ll stick my flaming sword up your arse.”

“You wouldn’t. I’m your only friend in the world at the moment.”

“Gods, that’s depressing.” Jaime gripped the side of the boat, levering himself up. “Excuse me while I drown myself.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’d hate to see how pissed the Gods would be if they had to resurrect you a second time.”

“Didn’t mind with Berric.”

The Hound’s face clouded. “He was a better man than you will ever be.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Jaime agreed. The man had given his life to save Arya Stark, who had, in turn, saved them all. For a little while, at least.

“Your lady knight wouldn’t agree.”

“Maybe not before, but now…” Jaime stared out over the water, wishing it was the sapphire blue shallows that embraced the rugged beauty of Tarth, wishing he was on his way to a peaceful island retreat rather than another bloody war for that cursed fucking throne. “I don’t know how she’ll receive me,” he confessed, pouring his grief and his sins into the too-dark water.

“Well, we’ll find out soon enough.” The Hound pointed behind Jaime, to where the blackened corpse of a city rose above the horizon. “Welcome to new King’s Landing, Jaime Prince.”

Jaime turned in his seat, and his heart plummeted to the ocean floor.

Like the dragons that had rested beneath the Red Keep for so long, the city was now nothing but bones. Scarred black beams reached for the sky like ribs with no heart left to protect. In other places, smallfolk huddled beneath canvas like organs with no body to serve. 

It was the landscape of Jaime’s nightmares. At once, he was but seventeen again, standing before the mad king and seeing a vision of this very end. He thought he had averted it, but the tragedy had only been postponed; a legacy passed from father to daughter. 

He was not sure if it would have been better to have allowed it to happen the first time. At least he could have died with honour, oath intact, protecting his demented king. 

Still. There was no changing what had been. He could only accept what had passed and try to protect the life that remained. 

And life _did_ remain. 

Here and there, between the bones of the city, new life was carving out a place for itself. Like snowdrops rising from the bare ground, some enterprising people had begun to rebuild. 

Market stalls made of salvaged wood lined the road towards what remained of the Red Keep, selling wares that whilst no doubt taken from the houses of the dead, were at least serving some purpose in this new world. Jaime thought he even spied a brothel or two in the alleys that remained. Of course the survivors would turn to fucking the wake of such unimaginable tragedy. It was easier to give in to the desires of the flesh than tend the wounds of the soul. 

That was something Jaime understood only too well. With the scent of funeral pyres choking the air, nobody thought too far into the future. A life stolen from the jaws of death itself was something to be celebrated, and regrets were not something to be entertained. 

Buoyed by the ecstasy of survival against unimaginable odds, he had given in to the most secret desires of his heart and body. Holding Brienne of Tarth as she rocked above him, falling asleep in her arms, pressing kisses into the muscled nook between neck and shoulder had been something like a fever dream. Hot, bright, and far too beautiful to be real, he had savoured every moment until the delirium faded and the cold reality of life had crept behind the walls of Winterfell at its Lady’s cruel words.   
  
How could he possibly face her again, wearing a new skin and demanding she return property she believed to belong to a dead man? There was no way he could simply be Jaime Prince to her. She would never relinquish Widow’s Wail to a stranger.  
  
He would have to tell the truth, and that had never been his strong suit.  
  
“You’re sure that the Three-Eyed Raven won’t be able to sense our intentions?” Jaime asked the Hound as they climbed ever higher.   
  
“The Gods were certain that whoever travelled with you would be offered some form of protection from his all-seeing eyes. Once you get your flaming sword, you and your companions will become completely invisible to him.” Clegane raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he stared up at the Red Keep. “Something to do with shadow play. I didn’t ask for more of an explanation. This magic shit still makes my skin itch.”   
  
“We have more in common than I thought,” Jaime noted.   
  
“We both know women likely to run us through when they realise we survived. Fortunately, the little wolf bitch is across the sea. Your knight is just around the next corner,”  
  
“Thanks for the reminder.”  
  
“Any clue what you’re going to say to her yet.”  
  
“Not a fucking clue.”  
  
“I’ll lead the way, then.” 

* * *

  
Seeing Podrick in Kingsguard gold did strange things to Jaime’s emotions.  
  
On one side, he was immensely proud of that lad. The green squire was no more, replaced by a knight more worthy of the title than almost anyone else. His sense of honour had been honed by Brienne, but Jaime, Tyrion, and even Bronn had helped to shape the man he had become.   
  
That was half the reason that his new station was so surprising. He was still so young, and by all accounts, had enjoyed women almost as much as they enjoyed him. Bronn and Tyrion had seen to that. Jaime had hoped that after the war, and after Pod had enjoyed his fill of whores, he’d find a lady to warm his heart as well as his bed.   
  
It was what he had wanted for his children, and somehow with them gone, he’d ended up wanting the same for Pod.   
  
But he was now sworn to eschew lands, and marriage, and even the satisfaction of a quick fuck. Many of the Kingsguard chose to ignore that particular vow, as did the men of the Night’s Watch, but he knew that Podrick’s oath, once given, would be kept.   
  
A sickness twisted in Jaime’s gut. Perhaps Pod’s decision to cast aside love and pleasure had been influenced by seeing first-hand how easily those two joys could be lost, even between those so perfectly matched.   
  
There was definitely a firmness to Pod’s bearing that hadn’t been there at Winterfell. He was visibly shocked by the appearance of the Hound, but he rallied quickly, a stiff-jawed mask of indifference sliding over his countenance within a moment.   
  
It was an expression so undeniably Brienne that he could almost have been her son.   
  
“I’ll escort you to the Lord Commander,” Pod decided after long deliberation. “But she’s very busy. She may not wish to receive you.”   
  
“She will if she wants the information I carry,” the Hound growled. “I didn’t come back to this shithole of a city for the good of my health.”  
  
Pod cracked a smile at that. “Fair enough. And your companion? What business does he have in King’s Landing?”  
  
Jaime had not been paying attention during the first minutes of the meeting, so he took a stab in the dark as to what Pod would want to hear.   
  
“I’ve got information too. From across the sea.”   
  
“Which sea?”   
  
“That’s the Lord Commander’s concern,” the Hound barked, covering for Jaime’s shortcomings. “Are you going to take us or not?”   
  
A knight of the Kingsguard Podrick may now be, but he still quailed under the full force of Clegane’s snarl.   
  
“Uh, follow me.”  
  
The stairs of the white sword tower curled like a snail’s shell, steep and narrow, impossible for any attacking force to storm at speed. The tower had not been razed in the siege of King’s Landing, but it was scarred. Cracks littered the masonry and opposite every window remained smudges of soot from Dragonfire. Some of these had disturbingly human features. Seeing the site of his former station so decrepit was like witnessing the scorched carcass of Harrenhal once more, and Jaime shuddered. At least then Brienne had been beside him, and not waiting on the other side of a distant door, waiting to welcome him as a stranger.   
  
Up and up they climbed, Jaime’s heart hammering harder with every step. He wasn’t paying attention, so finally raised a foot as though to ascend another stair, only to find there was none. His stomach dropped and his blood turned to ice as he slipped through the air for an endless moment before finding purchase on the ground once more.   
  
He had barely recovered when the door opened, and the same sensation ran through him a second time.   
  
In front of him stood a vision in gold; Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned in a comment, I'm using the Hound to voice all my frustrations over the last couple of episodes. If you imagine him doing a The Office-style look to the camera every time he drops some sassy criticism of the show's writing choices, you'll get the vibe I'm going for.


	3. Brienne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the other side of a downward spiral  
> My love for you went viral  
> And I loved you every mile you drove away  
> But now here you are again  
> So let's skip the "how you been"...
> 
> -Drive By,  
> Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Brienne’s POV might be the most difficult I have ever had to write. Please bear with me, I hope I’ll warm up to her in coming chapters!

Brienne I

  
“I’ve heard a rumour that Sandor Clegane is in the city.”

Brienne looked up from the letter she was writing to stare at her former squire. He appeared to be healthy, but clearly he was not feeling well.

“Clegane is dead,” she said slowly. “Several witnesses saw him fall from the Red Keep during the siege.”

“I know,” he said, nonplussed, idly picking at his nails. “But they never found a body, did they? I suppose he must have survived.”

Brienne watched him for a moment before huffing out a puff of air. “Are you going to stand there and chatter about idle gossip, or go and see if there is any truth in the matter? You’re Kingsguard, not a bloody fishwife.”

Colour rose in Pod’s cheeks and he took his leave with a small bob of a bow. Brienne sighed, knowing she’d probably been too hard on him. Podrick was now a knight, not her bumbling green squire. She should not have snapped at him, and yet he could still be remarkably dim sometimes. It was not a trait that mixed well with the black mood that had been crushing her for days.

Her eyes strayed to the trunk where she had shoved the parcel Tyrion had handed her two days prior.

 _He’d want you to have it_ , the imp had said, voice trembling with the effort of holding back tears. She had managed the same feat for just long enough to watch him leave the room before succumbing to the threat. She’d opened one end of the wrappings, just enough to see the ruby-encrusted hilt, before her vision blurred and she sunk to her knees.

She‘d clutched that bundle of steel and sacking until the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the room in red and making the gold of her armour glow with an unearthly light. There on the floor of the room that used to be his, wearing his colours like a cloak, like a funeral shroud, she had finally let her heart break.

Half in agony, half in ecstasy, she had drowned in his memory and the truth she had tried to deny for so long.

 _He loved you ‘til the end,_ Tyrion’s voice echoed, round and round inside her head. _But he loved her first, and she would not let him go._

In the darkness, she had made her peace with all that had passed between them. Then she had stowed his sword away, where it could not pierce her heart again.

But now it seemed that ghosts walked the city streets, and she could practically feel the part of Jaime that lived within her breast stirring in response.

They may have slain wights side-by-side, but it seemed she would never be free of the memory of the dead. The worst part was that she could not bring herself to mind. Some nights she felt like Jenny of Oldstones, alone in this cold, high tower, dancing with her ghosts.

Determined to shake thoughts of Clegane and Jaime and the other restless dead from her mind, for that way madness lay, she went back to her letter. She managed to finish that one, and seven more, before there was a knock on the door of the White Sword Tower.

One of the new squires poked his head around the doorframe before she had a chance to even acknowledge him. “Lord Commander? Ser Podrick sent me to tell you he is with the Hound, Sandor Clegane, and he wishes to speak with you. May they enter?”

“By the Gods,” she muttered, “how many times will that man cheat death?” Louder, she told the squire to send them up.  
Giving up on her correspondence, Brienne donned her white cloak and fastened Oathkeeper to her belt. The steel felt warm in her palm, as though it had been resting in a patch of sunlight. She supposed it was the difference between Valerian steel and the cast iron barrel of the quill she had been gripping for the past two hours. The sword felt more right in her had than any pen ever could.

Heavy footfalls on the stairs. Brienne rolled her eyes. How did Podrick always manage to sound like an advancing army? That was not a trait she had imparted upon him. There was only one other man that had walked with such arrogant disregard for stealth.

There seemed to be two more pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs behind Pod. One would belong to the Hound, but the third set was a mystery. It seemed unlikely he would have a travelling companion now Arya Stark was across the Sunset Sea. Besides, she walked in silence usually reserved for shadows. Perhaps it was the squire again? She would see to it that he understood that in the future, he was not required to escort guests to her door. There were better things he could be doing with his time.

Storming over to the door, ready to send the boy off to polish some particularly stinky boots, Brienne threw the door open.

But there was no squire shuffling around outside. Only Podrick, The Hound, and a man that looked about ready to shit himself with fear. He was shallow skinned and dark haired, with only one hand. There was a lot of that going around lately, with all fighting over the past decade.

Brienne glanced back at Podrick. “Who is this?” she asked, her irritation plain in her tone.

It was the Hound that answered, jabbing a thumb at the stranger. “He’s the one that wanted to talk with you. I’m just showing him around.”

“Using your name to secure an audience with the Lord Commander, you mean.”

The Hound shrugged, and the stranger laughed, finally looking like he wasn’t about to soil himself.

“What about that is funny?” she snapped. She was busy, she didn’t have time for this.

“Forgive me,” the man said in an odd, low voice. “It’s only that my own name once would have been enough to grant me access to anywhere I wanted to be.”

“And what is your name?”

“Jaime.” Brienne flinched, and the man looked uncomfortable again. “Jaime Prince.”

She recovered herself enough to sneer back, “well, I’ve never heard of you.”

“I doubt anyone in Westeros has. I’m new to this land.”

That explained why he looked so odd, at least, though it was strange that he had a Westerlands name. Brienne sighed. Just her luck to be stuck dealing with some foreign dignitary today. Couldn’t the king have forewarned her?

“Come on in,” she said, holding the door open. “I’m sure you have quite the story to tell.”

The Hound’s mauled face twisted into a smile. “Oh, that we do.”

* * *

“We’ve brought a warning from the East,” the Hound said as soon as they were seated.

Under the guise of considering his words, Brienne took a moment to scrutinise the Hound’s face. It clearly showed damage from sustaining significant blows, perhaps from falling from the Keep, if rumours were to be believed. One of his eyes was clouded and bloodshot, and appeared unfocused. She recognised the Mountain’s handiwork there, and knew that the injuries would have been fatal.

But despite these new wounds, the man was very much alive. He was also very obviously still the same person mentally that he had been at Winterfell. He was gruff and cruel and angry at the world- the same as he would always been. It was something that she could trust.

Satisfied that the man before her was not just a reanimated corpse like his brother had become, Brienne decided to listen to what he had to say. “I’m listening.”

“Darkness survived the fire that destroyed this city, and the Prince that was Promised has risen to meet the threat.”

“Ah,” Brienne started, exchanging another glance with Podrick, who looked just as mystified, “who?”

The Hound shrugged and jerked his thumb towards the man at his side again. “Him.”

The Prince glared at his companion. “Interesting way to start.”

“Feel free to take it from here then,” the Hound groused. “Earlier you looked like a frightened maid, so I thought I’d help. But I know when I’m not wanted.”

He stood abruptly, almost knocking his chair over.

“Clegane, please-” Brienne started.  
“It’s probably best coming from him, anyway,” he said. “Payne, you want to show me to a tavern that hasn’t been demolished?”

Podrick seemed unwilling to leave Brienne alone with the stranger, but she nodded her consent for him to go. She as confident she could beat this one-handed foreigner in a fight, should it come to that. With Brienne’s permission, Pod left with the Hound, glancing back over his shoulder nervously. His concern made her once again feel bad for snapping at him earlier.

And then there was just the two of them; he and the stranger. Neither seemed keen to break the silence that settled over them. The man from the East had yet to even meet her eye, which was very disconcerting.

Brienne was the first to break.

“Why are you here?” she snapped. “You bring vague warnings of darkness, and claim that you can protect us. What is it you want, exactly?”

The anxiety had returned to the stranger now that they were alone, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “I’ve come to collect what is mine.”

Brienne gritted her teeth. It seemed he didn’t bring news from across the sea after all; he was just somebody seeking wealth or power or whatever else it was people wanted in these days after the end of the world as they knew it. Was she doomed to deal with entitled men every day of her life? “Well, Prince, if this is where you attempt to claim the throne, it will be my duty to run you through. So, I suggest you think carefully about your next words.”

The man paled even further, impressive considering his wan complexion. It was like he’d never even seen the sun. “Believe me, I’ve thought of nothing else since I arrived in this damned city.”

“Out with it, then. I haven’t got all day.” She really was very busy. Marbrand was already giving her grief for not finishing the new guarding schedules that she should have given him yesterday, and she wanted to spar with Pod this evening. Hopefully that would wear her out enough that’d she’d be able to fall asleep.

The stranger’s response interrupted her spiralling thoughts.

“I believe that you have my sword.”

That was not what Brienne had been expecting. A possessive snapped to Oathkeeper’s hilt.

“This is not your sword,” she hissed, furious at the boldness of this stranger. To come into the Lord Commander’s chambers and demand her sword, unbelievable! She could have him thrown into the dungeon for less. If the dungeons had survived the collapse, that is.

“I know. I refer to that sword’s twin.” His eyes, such a beautiful, familiar shade of green, finally lifted to hers. Her heart stuttered under the weight of his gaze, and she had the strongest sensation of falling. “Oathkeeper is yours. It will always be yours.”

Brienne stood in a rush, papers skittering across the desk before her. Her fingers gripped the golden lion at her hip so hard that the ruby eyes drew blood. “Who the hell are you?”

The man stood too, moving slowly, as one would approach a skittish horse. Those eyes held hers like a beartrap. “I already gave you my name.”

“I want you to say it again.”

“It’s Jaime.” He breathed deeply, taking a step towards her. “In another life, I had a lion’s name, too.

It was impossible. Inconceivable. And yet, it was not unprecedented.

She thought of Jon Snow, and of Beric Dondarrion, and of the army of wights she had sent back to the grave with Valerian steel. The Hound had stood be fore her not five minutes before, battered but alive. If one dead man could walk into her chambers today, why couldn’t two?

“You’re Jaime,” Brienne breathed. “ _My_ Jaime.”

“Yes, Ser.” The words were coloured with relief and reverence, echoing the way he’d said _arise, Ser Brienne_ and _we lived_ and _Gods, Brienne, yes, oh…_

Silence hung between them like the notes of The Rains of Castamere as she stared at Jaime, those familiar eyes in a stranger’s face, a cat wearing a different coat.

If she were simply a maid, she might have fainted. She might have cried. She might have even screamed. But Brienne was a knight, and she did none of those things. She would not bow so low to this ghost, however long and sharp the claws tearing at her heart.

“Get out,” she heard herself saying, scarcely more than a whisper. Moving with the force of a wounded bull, Brienne rounded the desk, grabbed this... intruder by the collar, and hauled him into the hallway. “Get. Out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...(And get down to the "more than friends" at last)
> 
> ***
> 
> It seems I can’t stop quoting The Princess Bride in this fic. Thinking about it, Azor Ahai!Jaime has a bit of a Dread Pirate Roberts thing going on. I suppose that makes Brienne his super fierce Buttercup?


	4. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reborn and shivering  
> Spat out on new terrain  
> Unsure unconvincing  
> This faint and shaky hour
> 
> Gun shy and quivering  
> Timid without a hand  
> If God's taking bets  
> I pray He wants to lose
> 
> From scratch, begin again  
> But this time I as I and not as we
> 
> -Not as We,  
> Alanis Morissette

**Jaime III**

* * *

  
The Hound was waiting for Jaime at the bottom of the stairs to the White Sword Tower, smirking over the rim of a flagon of ale. “It went well then, I take it.”

“Fuck off.” Jaime snatched the ale and drained it in three gulps, wishing suddenly to be very, very drunk. “She hates me.”

“A sensible decision on her part, all things considered. But since you didn’t get the sword, you’ll have to try again tomorrow.” He took his flask back before turning and stalking off down the hall. “Come on. Podrick’s got rooms for us.”

Jaime followed in sullen silence, wishing all the while to turn back, to run from the city, for another cup of ale. The rooms they had been assigned were small and more than a little damp. Apparently, the original guest accommodation had been destroyed during the siege, so some of the former servants’ quarters had been repurposed for this task. Hearing this did nothing to improve his mood.

Still, Jaime was grateful for the straw mattress and small hearth, not to mention some privacy in which to process the events of the last couple of days. He’d not yet slept since waking up in this new body, and his meeting with Brienne had left him bone-weary. It was as though some inner light that had been driving him since his resurrection had been extinguished as soon as she slammed the door in his face. 

He deserved it, that much he knew.

He had watched her cry in that God’s-forsaken frozen courtyard and thrown her heart into the dirty snow before riding away without so much as a backward glance. 

He had so desperately wanted to look back. He had so nearly turned around. 

Yes, he had deserved it, but he had hoped for their reunion to be different. On the journey to the city, when fatigue and dehydration had muddled his mind, he’d allowed himself to dream of reunions filled with teary embraces and declarations of forgiveness. Even in the fantasies where she’d dropped him to his knees with a well-placed kick to his manhood, he’d been able to win her over with a smile and a self-deprecating jape.

He was ashamed of how foolish that all seemed now.

The worst part was that he had been so concerned with the thought of seeing her again that he’d not given a moment’s thought to the fact that they would once more need to part ways. He’d sailed in, turned her world upside down, ripped open the scabs that had started to heal over her heart, and once again, he would ride away. 

Gods, he was a shit.

Perhaps this was more of the gods’ cruel humour. He had been given a second chance at life only to be forced to commit the same sins again. Once more would he break the heart of the woman he loved. Once more would he strike against a king. Once more would he die in this thrice-damned city. 

The worst part was that Brienne, too, would suffer. Her only crime had been to love him; a man not worthy of love. 

These thoughts kept Jaime awake for hours, and when he finally slept, he dreamed of fire.

* * *

  
Jaime awoke to a pounding on his door that mirrored the one inside his head. Two days in and his new body was already unhappy with his treatment of it. 

“Get up, Prince,” Clegane growled from the other side of the thick wood. “The Lord Commander wants to see you.”

Jaime scrambled up and out of bed, tripping over his unfamiliar feet and almost crashing into the stool beside the bed. He hadn’t noticed after awakening in this new body for the first time, but now that he was somewhat rested and attempting to go about a regular routine, the differences between this body and the one he had lived in all his previous life were startling. 

Getting dressed was a long process. It was never easy with only one hand, and when those remaining fingers seemed too short and too thick to complete the simplest of tasks, Jaime was tempted to just give up and go back to bed. He doubted that this meeting with Brienne would be any more successful than the last one, which was something he was not keen to experience again. He also kept stopping to stare at his reflection in the polished pewter bowl on his nightstand, trying to find any familiar features in this new face. Aside from the green of his eyes, he could not see any.

When he finally worked up the courage to leave the room, the Hound was leaning against the opposite wall and scowling. 

“I ate half your breakfast out of boredom,” he snarled. “The rest’s down there.” He kicked a small platter at his feet, scattering crumbs onto the floor. 

“Out of spite, more like.”

Jaime’s stomach was too unsettled to handle a large feast, so the remaining slice of buttered bread and apple would suffice. The flagon of ale would help too.

He ate as they walked back to the White Sword Tower, with the Hound filling Jaime in on the events of the morning. 

“Your lady knight sent a squire for me just past dawn, demanding an audience. I had to go and clean up the mess you made last night with your senseless rambling. You’ve always been a fool when it comes to that woman, but it seems you’re worse than ever now. Didn’t the Gods screw your new head on properly?”

“You lack social skills regardless of who you speak too, so I don’t think you’re in any position to judge.”

“I don’t need to socialise. You’ve commanded armies, you should be able to reclaim one sword, for fuck’s sake.” 

“It’s not that easy,” Jaime huffed, as frustrated by the situation as the Hound and not appreciating his scorn.

“Well, I suppose you were born yesterday.” The Hound barked a laugh at his own joke. “I’ve done the hard work for you. All you need to do is grab the sword and light it up, then we can be out of here. You look like shit, by the way.”

Jaime ignored the slight. He felt like shit, too. “Ser Brienne’s agreed to give me the sword?”

“Yes. But she has conditions.”

They were at the bottom of the tower stairs now, and Podrick was waiting for them. He was glaring at Jaime. That was a new development. Brienne must have told him the truth of his identity.

“Conditions. Of course she does, the stubborn wench.” 

After much shuffling and grumbling, the four of them- Jaime, the Hound, Pod and Brienne- stood around the Lord Commander’s desk. The chairs had been moved to the side of the room, all attention now focused on the hessian-covered sword in the middle.

“Before I give you this sword,” Brienne said, meeting Jaime’s eye for the first time that morning, “you must swear to me that you will not raise is against Brandon Stark.”

“Weren’t you listening earlier? He’s the one we need the sword to fight.”

Brienne glared back, undaunted by the Hound’s bark. “Your quarrel is with the Three-Eyed Raven, not Brandon. From your explanation, the boy is the victim of great evil. It is our duty to protect him as much as anyone else.”

The Hound shrugged. “He brought it upon himself.”

“He was a child,” Jaime snapped, awash with guilt over what he had done to that child. To Brienne, in a lower voice, he said, “you have my word that no harm will come to Brandon Stark, unless it is the only way to defeat the raven.”

She started to protest, but he cut her off. “Brienne, you know I cannot risk the lives of all the world for the sake of one boy. But I will do all in my power to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

The curl of her lip softened a little before she pulled it between her teeth, chewing on it for a moment. Her ocean eyes scrutinised Jaime’s own as he tried desperately to keep his gaze from wandering to her lips, wide and chapped and damp. “Fine. I accept.”

“You trust his word?” Podrick scoffed, and the Hound looked equally sceptical. Whose side was he on, anyway?

“I do.” Brienne’s voice was firm, and Jaime’s heart warmed until he noticed the ice in her eyes. “It is the only thing he hasn’t broken.”

Jaime thought she was being overly kind with that assessment. She’d always considered him an oath keeper, true, but were things he’d said to her between the frigid walls of Winterfell that he’d meant as promises. Some he had kept, some he had left shattered in the dirt at her feet.

“For Catelyn,” he said, not knowing how else to bridge this rift between them other than to start at the beginning. “And for my sins.”

Brienne nodded once sharply before averting her eyes. She took her hand from the hilt of her own sword and shoved the bundle on the table closer to him.

“Let’s get on with it, then. I haven’t got all day.”

Carefully, scared that the sword might suddenly burst into flames at his touch, Jaime dragged the parcel closer with his stump. He held the wrapping steady and curled the fingers of his left hand around the golden hilt.

He needn’t have worried. The metal felt warm to the touch, but there was no divine ignition at the contact.

Jaime removed the sword entirely from its wrappings and held it before his face, staring at the red light glancing off the ruby in the pommel. He willed it to burn, but the sword remained simply a sword.

“How do you make it catch fire?” A nervous voice asked, breaking the spell of breathless anticipation that had settled over the room.

“Excellent question, Pod.” Jaime flexed his arm, running through a series of drills with just a little bit of extra flourish. It felt good to hold a sword, even if the metal did dig into the soft skin of his uncalloused palm.

But still, nothing happened.

Pod held his breath in anticipation, the Hound seemed bored out of his misshapen skull, and Brienne looked as though she was trying very hard not to roll her eyes.

Giving up on the deliberate actions, Jaime began to wave the sword around, feeling ever more stupid. He tried whispering a few fire-themed words under his breath, but nothing worked. Maybe he needed to speak Essosi, or perhaps High Valerian. Was there anyone left in the Keep that could translate for him?

“This should work,” he insisted to his unimpressed audience. “ _Azor Ahai shall wield the reforged Lightbringer and after tempering it thrice_ -”

“-We know,” Brienne uninterrupted. “I had Samwell Tarly tell us the legend of Azor Ahai.”

“How scholarly of you. If you’re so knowledgable, tell me how to light the damn thing.”

Brienne’s lips curled back into a sneer at his teasing. He usually loved getting such a rise from her, but it was a hollow victory now, knowing that he should’ve been able to bring a smile to that mouth in the next breath.

“Your problem, Prince, is that the thing you’re waving around isn’t a sword.”

Jaime stared dumbly down at the weapon in his hand. It looked like a sword and functioned like a sword. He knew that Brienne’s grief had played a part in the tempering of Lightbringer, but had it sent her mad?

She didn’t seem mad. In fact, Brienne’s faculties seemed as sharp as ever as she met his baffled gaze with a steely one of her own.

“It’s half a sword.” Brienne drew Oathkeeper, the rubied hilt glinting in her palm as she moved to stand in front of Jaime. His heart hammered against his ribs. “You should know that nothing shines when separated from its twin.”

Whilst Jaime was still reeling from that declaration, Brienne bought Oathkeeper up in a graceful arc until the steel clashed with Widow’s Wail in a song as old as battle itself. 

Blue flames leapt from the point where the two swords met, engulfing the blades up to the hilt. The sapphire light blazed like sunlight on water before the inferno dimmed to gold, rippling along the blade like waves at high tide. The blast of heat forced the Hound and Podrick backwards, but Brienne and Jaime stood still, unaffected.

“Lightbringer,” whispered Jaime in awe.

“Lightbringer,” Brienne agreed. 

He lifted the sword in an experimental arc. The flames seemed unaffected by the air currents, and Jaime knew that they would not be doused by winds like the burning blades of the Dothraki during the long night. This was a stronger sort of magic. Somehow, Jaime knew that the blade would burn for as long as his own heart continued to beat.

The Hound broke the spell with his indomitable grouching. “What good are two swords to a man with one hand?”

“Oathkeeper belongs to Ser Brienne, regardless of being part of Lightbringer. It stays with her,” Jaime immediately insisted, not taking his eyes from the fire. He could feel hers on him, however.

“And I shall travel with you.” With that declaration she slipped Oathkeeper, flames and all, back into the scabbard at her hip. The inferno was doused immediately, as was the fire of his own blade. 

Jaime tried to protest, but Brienne cut him off before a word left his lips. “If I were not supposed to wield half of Lightbringer at your side, then my life would have been forfeit in the tempering, like Nissa Nissa. That may have been a kinder fate, but alas, the Gods demand my continued service. Podrick, ready your things. We leave at nightfall.”

“That won’t be enough time to make the necessary arrangements,” Jaime argued, reeling from the unexpected turn this meeting had taken. Brienne, joining their party as they headed north?

He remembered what the Gods had said just before he awoke. _Collect your sword and gather your companions._

Of course Brienne would be one of those destined to join him on this quest. He should have expected nothing else from the Gods that seemed more concerned with torturing him with irony than saving themselves and the future of the human race. 

“The arrangements were made whilst you were still abed, Prince,” Brienne assured, revealing new evidence of the Gods’ interference. 

“You already knew.”

“Last night, the Gods came to me in a dream. It’s why I allowed you to come back this morning.”

She sounded incredibly put out by the whole ordeal. Well. If he was to be tortured with her presence for the next few moons, then he would need to work on rebuilding their acquaintance.

“What did they look like to you?” he asked, suddenly curious without knowing why. “The Gods, I mean.”

Brienne blinked once in surprise, but ignored the question. “I suggest you go now and find yourself some armour. The adjustments may take all day; the smiths are preoccupied with the rebuilding efforts.”

It was then that Jaime realised he owned nothing beyond the clothes on his back, and now a godly weapon. No horse, no armour, not even a damn water skin.

He had gone from one of the richest to one of the poorest men in Westeros almost overnight. He just knew the Gods were having a good old laugh over that, and no doubt the Hound would too.


	5. Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Put on a brave face  
> Act like an earthquake didn't come  
> right in and tear it up  
> And everything we've built inside this  
> beautiful and safe space  
> Here in this room where you should be  
> I'm losing sight of you  
> A stranger simply passing through again  
> Again  
> Again  
> -Hearts,  
> Jessie Ware

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I take more care with the equine characters than the human ones. Little Stark is my furchild now.

# Brienne II

  
Brienne had not been entirely honest when she told Jaime that all the arrangements had been made. She might have devised a plan in her head, but had not had time to fully bring it to action by communicating with the necessary people. Clegane had explained how the King’s vision would not extend to those directly under the protection of the Gods, but she was unwilling the take unnecessary risks. The fewer people that knew of her plans, the better. 

And so, though it pained her greatly to speak falsely, it would have to be done. 

After she’d awoken from the dream in which all had been made clear- an incredibly disconcerting experience that was at least a change from her usual dreams of death and longing- Brienne had stayed up and concocted a story that relied almost entirely on half-truths. Not only did she hate lying, but she was terrible at it.

So now she found herself in the chamber of the Hand, trying to look sincere whilst she spun her tale for Tyrion; the most cunning man she knew. If she got this past him, then it was by the grace of the Gods themselves. She sent up a quick prayer for assistance and clemency for the falsehoods she was about to spin. She’d never prayed outside the field of battle before, but this seemed like a good time to start.

“Clegane brought news of an uprising of the faith of the Lord of Light,” she began. Tyrion’s eyebrows rose at the mention of the Hound, although he had to know of his arrival by now. “He was resurrected by a Red Priest himself after the siege of King’s Landing,” she explained. “After the Sept of Baelor was destroyed, the followers of R’hllor saw an opportunity to establish their faith more securely in Westeros. In the wake of the new regime, they hope to capture the devotion of the smallfolk who are still yet to understand all the changes made from King’s Landing.”

Tyrion’s expression was appropriately concerned. No doubt he’d been hoping for this spell of tentative peace to last a little longer. “There is a threat of violence?” 

Brienne scrambled for the facts of the story she had written by the light of the dawn creeping through her window.

“Human sacrifice is a known practice of some of the followers of the Lord of Light,” she said, building off her knowledge of Stannis and Melisandre’s diabolical acts of devotion. She did it have to fake fear or disgust when she thought of Renly or his little niece. “And there is always likely to be conflict wherever foreigners preach of a new religion.”

“Indeed. Do you believe that the King is in danger?”

“Not if we stop them before they reach the city.” She took a steadying breath. “I want to lead a small force to the origin of these reports and investigate further.”

“A good idea for sure, though I don’t see why you need to be the one to settle the issue. Your place is here, commanding the Kingsguard, which tend to be guarding the King.”

The Hand’s flippant criticism of the plan did not hide his suspicion. Brienne tried to keep her face steady.

“What is it you aren’t telling me, Brienne? What is so important you’d abandon your duties here?”  
  
Brienne knew that he was not convinced by her tale- he’d seen too much of the world, and she too little. She had thought of a contingency story but was reluctant to use it. Saying the words would remind her of thing she was trying so hard not to think about. Meeting Tyrion’s suspicious gaze, she knew she had no choice but to exploit their common ground. 

“Clegane died during the siege, and yet now he lives once more, thanks to the intervention of a Red Priest. I’ve heard stories that some of the high priests and priestesses can commune with the dead.” She bit her lip and furrowed her brow. She knew that Tyrion could not resist helping a damsel in distress. They had that in common.

It appeared that the events of the last day had added some authenticity to her performance, for Tyrion’s expression softened.

“Brienne.” Tyrion placed his small hand over hers, and she knew then that she had won. This was one subject he had not believed her capable of lying about. “I miss him too. But I believe this to be a fool’s errand, and hardly worth risking everything you’ve built here.”

“I need to know.” Brienne grit her teeth, hoping that the red staining her cheeks would be attributed to shame rather than the effort of lying. “I need to know why he left. I’ve listed every possibility a thousand times, and I don’t even know which hurts less. Every day I wear his cloak and wield his sword, every night I sleep in the chamber that was his. I cannot escape his memory. I just want the truth. Maybe then I can put him behind me.” 

Yesterday, this might have been true. But now, there could be no closure. There was only a truth that she refused to entertain.

“I wish I could give you the answer,” Tyrion sighed. “But all I know is that he loved you, and that he was happy.” He got up and poured himself another glass of wine. He offered one to her, and she was about to turn it down out of habit, but something in Tyrion’s eyes drove her to accept.

They drank in silence, and it felt as though Jaime’s ghost sat between them. She might have even believed it, as she had in the months previous, had she not known that he was elsewhere in the castle, alive and well. The knowledge made her feel sick with more emotions than she knew how to process at any one time. On top of that, not being able to tell Tyrion that his brother had returned felt like a betrayal of their newfound friendship.

She took a deep gulp of the wine and prayed it would quell the storm inside her. Tyrion observed with his wise, canny eyes.

“Go,” he said after such a long silence that it made her jump. “Do what you need to put your heart at ease, and then let him rest. I’ll find someone to hold your position until you return.”

“I don’t expect to keep the cloak,” Brienne said immediately.

“I’m not throwing away a perfectly good Lord Commander,” he said. “unless, of course, you want to leave. If once your heart is fulfilled, you wish to return, the cloak will be waiting for you. I can give you six moons.”

Six moons. The Gods had not provided a timescale when describing the vague, creeping threat to humanity, so it would have to be enough.

“Thank you, Tyrion.” Brienne surprised him- and herself- by catching him in a firm embrace.

“Stay safe, Brienne,” he said quietly, resting his hands on her armoured shoulders. “In a kinder world, you would have been my goodsister. Still, you are one of the only people in this world I can truly call a friend.”

“I would have been honoured to call you my brother,” she said, tears threatening to make an appearance. “Perhaps, in my absence, you should confide in the other woman whom you are kindred?”

“Sansa is busy.”

“And yet she would welcome a raven from you. Or better yet, a visit.”

Tyrion blushed like a maid, and Brienne smiled in spite of herself. “I shall take your word on it, Ser Brienne.”

The sound of her title reminded her of the man that had bestowed it, and the warmth of companionship faded.

“I’ll inform the small council of the plan tomorrow,” Brienne lied, returning to the matter at hand. “I’ve preparations to make and I don’t want to be interrupted by anyone questioning my motivations.”

Tyrion nodded. “At tomorrow’s meeting, I will formally request that you lead a small party to investigate the situation. Nobody will know of your... secondary reasons.”

“Thank you,” she said again. Tyrion truly was a friend, and betraying him felt so, so wrong. But it had to be done, for the good of the kingdoms. “I will inform the King tomorrow, after I have selected my travelling party. No sense bothering him now, he’ll likely be aware of our conversation anyway,” she added. She wasn’t sure if the Gods’ intervention would prevent the raven from seeing their conversation, but if it had, she couldn’t risk Tyrion mentioning it to him and tipping him off that something was amiss. She needed to be far from the city before the raven realised that things were happening beyond his omniscient gaze. 

As she left the chambers of the Hand, Brienne’s emotions were a raging storm. But it was not the flurry of guilt she had expected. It felt more like she had just torn the scab from a wound she hadn’t realised she’d been suffering from. 

The sensation was still prickling when she re-entered her chambers and started to pack her saddlebags. It worsened as she wrote a hasty letter for Tyrion, explaining that she’d received new intelligence and she had to leave right away. Each thread she spun in this web of lies tugged at that newly opened wound. Her chambermaid received the bite of her ire when she brought hot water for Brienne’s bath. 

As it was the last hot bath she was likely to have for a while, Brienne slipped beneath the water and savoured the feeling rather than washing quickly and efficiently as usual.

So far, she had been avoiding dwelling too long on the implications of this quest upon her honour. The Gods had tasked her with protecting the realm, and as a knight made under their witness, her duty was clear. Be brave, and just, and protect the innocent. Since her audience with the Gods, she had been labouring under this mantra. 

But as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, her duty was first and foremost to her king, and the city in which he dwelled. The King that she was set to move against. 

Never before had her honour drawn her in two different directions. Only one could be satisfied. 

It wasn’t too late to tell Jaime and his flaming sword to go to hell. She could kill him if she had to, she was sure. The threat to her King would pass, and she could ride out on the morrow with good men at her back in search of priests that weren’t there. Perhaps she could do as she had told Tyrion and put Jaime behind her once and for all. She could throw the twin swords that made up Lightbringer into the Sunset Sea and be done with it all. 

But soon, she knew, darkness would come. 

She had not initially supported Bran’s claim to the throne. True, he was not likely to succumb to the vices that drew so many monarchs to tyranny, but he was cold, and unfeeling. After her dream, she understood. The sense of unease she had around the boy was the primaeval awareness that he was inhuman. That he was something _other_.

She’d thought she understood what it meant to be a kingslayer in the bath at Harrenhal, when Jaime had confessed the reasons for his sins. The act had seemed unquestionable- noble, even. 

Now, she knew the truth. There was no more honour in killing a king than saving one. One oath would be broken, and whether it was the one she had sworn to uphold with joy or under a stifling sense of duty, the outcome would be the same. 

She was to become an oathbreaker whichever path she chose. 

Who deserved her loyalty? Who was worth more, one king or a thousand nameless nobodies?

She did not know the answer. But Jaime had made the decision, long ago, and she had loved him for it.

Her heart had made its choice, and when all else failed, Brienne would always follow that. 

* * *

As darkness blanketed the city, Brienne sent Podrick to collect Jaime and Sandor Clegane and bring them to the stables. She carried their luggage herself, smuggling it out through the secret passageway from the Tower to a small room behind the stables. Since becoming Lord Commander, she’d learned all the secrets of the crippled city, some of which had only been exposed after its destruction.

If Jaime or Cersei had known of certain secret passageways during the tower collapse, they could have both made it out alive. Who would have carried the mantle of Azor Ahai then? Would she still have been reunited with him?

She mulled this over until she reached the stables proper, where she dismissed the groom with a gold dragon and set to work tacking the horses. 

Jamie’s old palfrey, Honor, had beed found wandering the streets after the siege of King’s Landing. When no soldier had come forward to claim him, she’d taken him for her own, since the mount she’d been accustomed to had been left at Winterfell. She supposed Jaime would want Honor back, now. Instead, she chose a sturdy bay mare that she knew nobody had a particular attachment to, ornery as she was, whose stocky legs and feathered feet would serve them well in the frozen North. The beast stomped and huffed and generally made a nuisance of herself as she was saddled, but Brienne nudged her back with a firm shoulder. 

“I don’t want to go any more than you do. Be polite or I’ll sell you for glue.”

Brienne’s stern voice tempered the horse’s ire a little, and she stood still whilst the last of the provisions were strapped to her broad back. 

Honor, however, began to kick up a fuss just then. A moment later, Jaime entered the stable. He immediately went. Over to the palfrey, who calmed when his neck was patted. 

“He knows you,” Brienne observed.

“We’ve been through a lot together, Honor and me.”

The horse nickered softly, as if in agreement. Any regrets Brienne may have had about not keeping the animal for herself were quelled when she saw Jaime’s soft smile as he played with the steed’s mane.

Jaime had never wanted to get attached to his horses. He didn’t like things growing on him. And yet, here he was, greeting the animal like an old friend. 

Between that strangely familiar smile and Honor’s happy recognition, there could be no doubt that the man inside this stranger’s body was, in fact, Jaime Lannister. She’d not even realised she’d still doubted it until the assurance hit her like a punch to the chest.

“Stop swooning like a maid and mount the damn thing,” Brienne snapped, swinging herself into her saddle. She was unsettled by the bond that still linked man and beast; beyond death, beyond all physical reason. She was not yet prepared to contemplate the resurgence of Jaime Lannister’s soul in such a way. It was easier to continue pretending he was a stranger. 

That part was easier when Jaime shifted in the saddle, fiddling with the stirrups and struggling to find his seat. Honor swung his head around to stare at his rider in bemusement, and Brienne has to tamp down a smile.

“You look like you’ve never ridden before,” she said, endeavouring to keep her voice stern. 

“I haven’t, not really. It’s not easy, finding yourself in a different body.”

“The King doesn’t struggle so.”

“The King is a thousand-year-old seer. Perhaps with that much practice, I would be a bit more adept at switching bodies.”

Their squabbling was interrupted by the appearance of Pod and the Hound. They were both mounted already; their horses had been stabled in a different block.

“It’ll be a hard gallop out of here,” the Hound noted, watching Jaime squirm. “You sure you don’t need tying to the saddle?”

“Thank you, but I’ve ridden in worse states.” He pressed Honor’s sides with his heels and trotted to the front of the group, looking only slightly ungainly. “Try not to trample me if I do fall off.”

Honor leapt forward at his rider’s sloppy command, clattering across the cobbles and out into the yard. Brienne was close behind, followed by the Hound’s great beast Stranger. Podrick brought up the rear on his dappled grey. 

They tore out of the courtyard as though the Keep was once again aflame, crashing past guards before they could even tear their eyes from their tankards to stare at the riders in confusion. Jaime took a right at the remains of the Great Sept of Baelor and across Cobbler’s Square, heading for the Gate of the Gods rather than the Lion Gate. It would slow their advance through the countryside, but the chance of being stopped was much lower.

Regardless, it felt good to be galloping headlong out of the city. Since accepting the honour of Lord Commander, Brienne had not left King’s Landing. She’d not been so desperate for movement since she was an unruly teen on Tarth. The only times she had been on a horse were during ceremonies or picking her way through the rubble, surveying the damage the two Queens had wrought in their battle for the throne. Both those activities undertaken were on the great white destrier Ser Davos had thoughtfully found for her. It was a truly beautiful horse, but slow and sometimes painfully stupid. 

In more than one moment of heartache and frustration, she’d considered naming in Jaime. 

The bay palfrey moving beneath her now was plain and perhaps a little small, but she was fast, and her gait was smooth and true. She had been a good choice for the journey North, even if she was known to buck when she grew tired. 

Stark, Brienne named the mare, thoughts of small but fiery women sprinting to mind. 

Their convoy made good time out of the city, and true to his word, Jaime did not fall off. Though his new body may have taken some getting used to, his reflexes were as sharp as ever, and Brienne found herself watching as he grew ever more comfortable in the saddle. 

She was glad that she had been able to return Honor to him. The comfort and confidence that came from riding a horse you knew inside and out was second to nothing. On a different horse- her grumpy mare, for example, he might have ended up on his arse in the dirt, and that would only have slowed them down further. 

They rode through the night and the next morning, pausing only at midday to allow the horses some time to recover in the shade of a small riverside copse. Stark clambered straight into the river and stood there, letting the water wash foamy sweat from her short legs as she drank deeply. 

When they left the copse, after bribing Stark with half their supply of apples to get her to leave the stream, the Hound took the lead. Further from the city, the terrain was growing wilder with every passing league. Stranger, the largest of the mounts, found it easier to blaze a wide path through the thick grasses. Though they moved slowly over the uneven ground, Brienne was relived to leave civilisation behind. The King might not be able to find them with his Greensight, thanks to the intervention of the Gods, but four warriors on the Kingsroad were easy enough for anyone to see. 

The slower pace also made it easier for Brienne to doze in the saddle, so when Stark almost crashed into the back of Stranger, she jerked awake with a startled grunt. Even in the moonlight, she could see the Hound’s glare.

“We’ll make camp here,” he growled.

“Can’t we make it a little further tonight?” Jaime asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“I’m not killing my horse for your crusade. Now make us a fire with your flaming sword, I’m fucking freezing.”

They dismounted, and Podrick left to collect firewood whilst the Hound went hunting. Jaime began brushing down the horses, leaving Brienne to make camp. They moved silently around each other as they went from one horse to the next, untacking and unpacking. It seemed that neither wanted to break the fragile truce that formed between them in the presence of the others.

Brienne dragged a couple of logs into a V to block the wind- no easy task to do alone, even for someone of her might- and banked the bedrolls against it to form a soft backrest. When she finally finished, she lay back against it, she shifted onto her side to allow her sore muscles to stretch.

“My arse hasn’t hurt this much since I was a squire,” Jaime said, breaking the silence as he slipped down beside her. She didn’t respond, even though several snippy retorts came to mind, sounding remarkably like Tyrion’s voice inside her head.

Instead, she took Oathkeeper from its scabbard and ran her fingers across the ruby in the hilt. It seemed to sparkle more than they had before it became Lightbringer, as though some ethereal fire was trapped within its depths. It was as good a distraction as any.

Light flared in the corner of her vision as Widow’s Wail caught alight. Jaime yelped and dropped the flaming sword, which dimmed as it hit the ground.

“You shouldn’t have a magical sword if you don’t know how to use it,” Brienne snapped, shuffling away from the scent of burning.

“I didn’t exactly ask for it this. Anyway, I didn’t mean to light it. I just thought about fire and, well, it happened.” He picked the sword back up, grimacing when he saw the scorched ground below.

“I didn’t choose it either,” Brienne said, though she wasn’t sure if that was entirely true. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said, surprising her. “I never meant to drag you into this- nor Pod. Sorry, _Ser_ Podrick. I suppose that was your doing?”

Brienne scrutinised his face but saw nothing but sincerity in those unfamiliar features.

“Yes,” she said warily. “It was my first act as Lord Commander.” She smiled at the memory, and Jaime smiled, too. It made her heart ache with nostalgia. “And it’s alright. It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I want you to know that I didn’t intend for you to get caught up in this; to feel that you had to break your oath. I meant to just get the sword and leave.” 

All the tenderness that had she had started to feel for him dissipated in an instant. She stood up in a fit of rage, Oathkeeper in hand. With a flick of her wrist, it burst into flames, gratifying her anger, just inches from Jaime’s irritatingly straight nose.

“I’m going for a piss.”

If Oathkeeper’s flames singed the sleeve of his tunic as she turned away, well, she didn’t really give a damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Too proud to it say, and I let you leave straight out of spite  
> And now I'm missing you, sometimes I wish you missed me too  
> ***
> 
> Bonus:  
> Brienne knighted Pod at her own inaugural feast, right in front of the King, because she wanted the world to see what a remarkable man he had become. They may have cried. Davos and Tyrion definitely did. Even Bronn was caught rubbing his eyes. 


	6. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say you want me,  
> Say you want me,  
> Out of your life  
> And I'm just a dead man walking tonight  
> -Youngblood,  
> Five Seconds of Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bronn makes an appearance, so, naturally, the profanity increases in this chapter.

# Jaime IV

Jaime patted as his smoking sleeve as he watched Brienne stalk away, Oathkeeper- or rather, Lightbringer, when it was all aflame with gold like that- raised high against the falling darkness. She moved like she had in his dream so long ago, and in a bath before that; all fury and self-righteous indignance. In this world rendered new in the wake of the Long Night, she was a finally a knight, and she perhaps she had always been a beauty. 

“What the hell have you done now?” the Hound growled from behind Jaime, making him jump and almost drop his sword again.

“I honestly have no idea.” 

“Been an idiot,” Podrick supplied, arriving with an armful of firewood. “Don’t you ever think before you speak?” Gone was the shy squire that watched him with awe. 

“I was apologising!” Jaime exclaimed, now somewhat outraged himself. “I was trying to be nice. It’s not my fault she’s determined to take offence at everything.”

The Hound laughed, and it was a cruel, grating sound. “You’re more of a cunt than I am, even when you’re not trying.”

Jaime turned to Podrick, seeking support, but was met with a disapproving shake of the head before the boy turned away in favour of preparing the fire. Clearly, Pod would take Brienne’s side regardless of his innocence in this particular matter. Damn the loyalty that stubborn woman could inspire.

Once Pod had arranged the sticks, Jaime thrust Widow’s Wail into their midst and willed it to burn. It took several attempts to spark even a small fire. It seemed this was something else Brienne could best him at. When the sword finally lit, Jaime kept it burning, enjoying the warmth spreading up his arm. It should have been unbearably hot, but to him, it felt like the long-awaited caress of summer.

At this moment, the sword looked nothing like the weapon that had once been forged by his cold father for his cruel son. This weapon was one half Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and once more he cursed Joffrey for choosing such a wicked name for this beautiful sword.

One half of Lightbringer...

Widowbringer. Light’s Wail. Widow’s Light...

The flame burned brighter, hotter, almost white as he considered the name.

“Widow’s Light it is; then,” he murmured. “Sorry, Joff.” The sword flickered in agreement. 

He hoped Brienne would not mind he had left her with ‘bringer’, should she choose to rechristen Oathkeeper. Oathbringer did sound a bit shit, he reasoned, so probably not.

The rat and squirrel that the Hound had caught were nearly cooked by the time Brienne returned, red-faced as though she had been running. Jaime was concerned only for a moment, as he knew that she would have come barrelling into camp if anything had been amiss. Instead, she quietly walked in and grabbed the plate that Pod offered, letting Oathkeeper’s fire die out before she placed it gently on the floor.

They talked a little between the four of them, discussing their route and the rations they’d been able to cobble together, all choosing to ignore the atmosphere between Jaime and Brienne. It was a simple truce between comrades in arms. Podrick’s understanding of the mission as a whole was lacking, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was once again clear he was here out of loyalty to Brienne rather than a sense of divine duty. Where she went, he went, despite no longer being her squire. Gifting him to Brienne was one of the better decisions Jaime had made, right behind knighting her, even if their enduring closeness sparked just a hint of envy.

When the food was gone and the flames had begun to die down, the Hound removed his bedroll from the pile and spread it out as far from the firepit as was possible in this climate. Brienne tucked hers close to the log, out of the wind. Jaime almost moved into the space beside her, hoping to make the most of the warmth, but Pod took his bedroll from his hands. 

“Let me set that up for you, Ser.” The words were pleasant, as was their tone, but the look on his face was bitter. Pod dropped the roll of furs on the other side of the Hound, close to the fire but as far from Brienne as possible. 

Jaime responded with a tight smile, not wanting to make more of a scene tonight. He’d thought that the fragile truce they’d been under for the past hour might hold, but now he sensed there would be a lot more of this quiet reprimand before they reached their journey’s end. Brienne, at least, would be civil when in company. Ser Podrick apparently had no such reservations. 

Chastised by the younger man, Jaime crawled beneath the furs and placed his back to the fire for a long time. He waited until all the shuffling from the other side of the camp had stopped, and Pod’s soft snores filled the night. Then, he rolled over and opened his eyes.

Brienne’s bulk was visible only as a bundle of furs hidden within the shadow of the log until her eyes opened and reflected the firelight back at him. They stared at each other for a long moment, as though it were only northern furs and a soft bed between them rather than a dying fire and distance that might as well have been a thousand leagues. Regret sat heavy in Jaime’s stomach, and he wished he knew the right words to bridge the continent between them.

Brienne’s eyes narrowed as though she could hear a whisper of his thoughts, before she turned away with a huff that was both familiar and yet in utterly the wrong context. 

Jaime continued to stare at her fur-clad back until sleep took him. 

* * *

They were being followed. 

The party had broken camp at first light and moved into the shade of the forest path before noon, shortly after which they had begun to realise that something was wrong. 

Jaime watched Podrick turn in his saddle for the third time in a minute as his horse’s ears flicked back towards some sound too low for the humans to hear. Knowing that they could ignore the threat no longer, Jaime signalled for him to stop, and the others followed suit.

“We’re going to have to turn and fight,” Jaime said in a low voice. “We can’t risk them heading back to the city with information about our route.”

“What if it’s a large group of the King’s soldiers?” Brienne asked. “We’d better try to outrun them.”

“When have you ever run away from a fight?”

He regretted the words almost as soon as he said them, seeing the flicker of pain cross her face. Of course. He’d used those words to excuse his return to Cersei. 

“We’ve got Lightbringer,” the Hound noted, ignoring the sudden spike of tension. “They’d be hard push to overcome two flaming swords if they weren’t expecting it.” 

“Perhaps we could stage an ambush?” Pod suggested. 

Jaime took stock of their surroundings once more, but the dense trees of the Hayford forest road made them much more likely to be the victims of an ambush than the culprits. Somewhere near there was a whole village hidden within these emerald crowns. They were surrounded on all sides. This really was a terrible place to be forced to stop.

“Whatever we do, we need to decide quickly,” Brienne hissed.

A twig snapped on Jaime’s left, derailing thoughts of flight or fight. “You should listen to the lady.”

Jaime dragged his horse around to face the speaker, but Brienne’s position and smaller mount allowed her to push through first, much to his chagrin.

“Show yourself!”

From behind a gnarled tree stepped Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, eyes alight with glee at having successfully snuck up on the party. Behind him stood a horse far too pretty to be his own. “Not usually in such a hurry to see me, Lord Commander.”

For the first time since his reincarnation, Jaime missed his golden hand. He would have loved nothing more than to smack Bronn across the face with it. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Brienne asked, stunned out of her usual composure.

“You were seen leaving the city with the Hound and a one-handed man. I thought that if Clegane has somehow survived a hundred-foot fall into fire, then maybe…” Bronn’s neck turned red as Brienne continued to stare him down, but his tone stayed as smug as ever. “Well. I’m still owed a debt, and Tyrion’s yet to pay up.”

Now that Jaime’s panic had turned to intrigue at Bronn’s sudden appearance, he brought Honor alongside Brienne’s ugly little mare and schooled his features into something he hoped would be recognisably Lannister. “I knew you cared for me really, you conniving bastard.”

Bronn’s eyes widened in shock for barely a second as he recognised the man behind the stranger’s face. “Jaime fuckin’ Lannister. I knew it had to be you. No way would Brienne of fuckin’ Tarth run off with anybody else.”

Brienne huffed in disdain, but Jaime picked up on Bronn’s earlier declaration before she had the chance to pick a fight.

“I’m not a Lannister anymore, so I wouldn’t repay that debt, even if I did owe you one. You got your castle, Lord Bronn of Highgarden.” Jaime’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the golden crossbow strapped to Bronn’s saddle. “Come to take another shot at me?”

Bronn rolled his eyes and took a wineskin from his coat pocket, leaning back against the tree. “Let’s not dwell on that.”

“What, the fact that you were going to kill me?”

“I was never going to kill you, you daft cunt.”

“It didn’t seem that way.”

Bronn shrugged and drunk some wine. His carefree attitude made Jaime’s blood boil, and he drew his sword. In all their years of acquaintance, Jaime had not known Bronn to lie. It was a disconcerting development- even more so than his willingness to kill anyone and everyone.

“Excuse me, Sers,” Podrick piped up from behind. “What’s going on?”

Jaime pointed Widow’s Wail at Bronn. “This bastard was going to assassinate me if I didn’t promise him Highgarden, and he doesn’t even have the decency to admit it.”

Podrick gasped, and Jaime heard a thump as the Hound socked him in the arm for it.

“Put that thing down before you take my eye out, I know how shit you are with it,” drawled Bronn. Using his wineskin, he batted at Widow’s Wail until Jaime was obliged to sheath it or risk fine Dornish red spilling all over his breeches. He noticed that Brienne gripped Oathkeeper even tighter in response. “Your brother and I made a deal- he would pay me double what anyone else offered if I spared his life. I knew he’d pay up, so I never had any intention of following your sister’s orders. Tight cunt didn’t pay me nearly enough.”

“So you admit to extortion. Some friend you are.”

“Fucking Highborns,” Bronn scoffed. “Like I told Tyrion- I like you, pampered shits that you are, but I like _myself_ more. Friendship’s great, but it doesn’t put food in your belly or a roof over your head. I did what I had to do to survive, and I made sure you did too. You should be thanking me.”

“Thankful that you almost shot me?”

Bronn’s head rolled back in a pantomime of exasperation, and he spoke slowly, as if Jaime were a small, dim child. “If I had refused Cersei, she would have killed me, then sent somebody else- somebody who _didn’t_ like you- to kill you. If I’d taken her money and gone anywhere but north, I’d have been running for the rest of my days. And if come to Winterfell and asked for nothing but your _friendship_ , well, what then?”

“You wouldn’t be such a heartless bastard, for a start.”

“I was assuming that the Dragon Queen would take the throne. What do you think she would have done with me- the man Cersei hired to kill her Hand? I’d have been dragonfodder for sure, and I told you – dragons are where our partnership ends.”

Bronn did have a point with that. Daenerys would have liked Cersei’s hired sword even less than she liked Jaime himself, which was a hard act to follow. There were still gaps in Bronn’s logic, though.

“So why barter for Highgarden rather than immunity from Daenerys?”

“Same fucking thing. Listen- a lowborn man, a knight who made his own fortune and received a lordship for loyalty to his friends- doesn’t that fit amazingly well with Daenerys’s own narrative? A man whose loyalties can easily be ensured with a sack of gold, to boot. I’d have been her favourite noble. Might have even got to fuck her when she got bored of that glum northern bastard.”

It seemed that Jaime and Tyrion had both been guilty of grossly underestimating Bronn’s cunning. In all their cursing of Bronn, neither had considered his reasons for the near-assassination. They’d dismissed him as a heartless sellsword to the core, and a thoughtless one at that.

Perhaps Bronn had been right when he said they didn’t appreciate him. 

“Tyrion made good on his promise?” Jaime said eventually, once the shock of realising Bronn’s tactical prowess had worn off.

“Seems like you’re still something of a Lannister after all,” Bronn sneered. “As I already told you, I got my Lordship and my castle, but there’s no highborn beauty of a wife warming my bed- so you haven’t fulfilled your part of the bargain we made before you dragged me to Dorne.”

“You wouldn’t know if there was. When was the last time you slept in your own bed anyway?” 

“I’ve still not been to Highgarden, it’s true. My duties as Master of Coin have kept me very busy in the capital.”

“You, Master of Coin?” Jaime spluttered, to Bronn’s obvious delight. Nobody had thought to tell him of _that_ when he’d been in King’s Landing. “That’s like leaving a dog in charge of a butcher’s shop.”

“Aye. The dog is having a mighty fine time of it,” Bronn grinned.

Brienne rolled her eyes, ostensibly deeming it safe to re-join the conversation now. “The rest of the small council keeps his proclivities in check. For the most part...”

“I signed the licence for another brothel just before I followed you, Ser Brienne. I’d hate to have kept those hardworking ladies without a roof over their heads.”

Jaime did not like the way Bronn leered at Brienne, not one bit. Surely he would not… it must be a ruse. A ruse to rile Jaime into giving him more than he deserved. He would not allow it. “Your life sounds idyllic, Ser Bronn, and since it’s clear I’ve no means of repaying my debt at this juncture, why follow us? I think the prospects for Highborn beauties must be better in the capital.”

“The King’s more concerned with staring at the inside of his skull than establishing a court full of eligible ladies.” It didn’t bode well for the monarchy if even Bronn had noticed the King’s reluctance to rule. “I must have fucked every whore in King’s Landing twice over, and it’s getting quite boring. I think it’s time for a change. Where are we headed, anyway?”

“North,” Jaime said, at the same time as Brienne snapped, “there is no _we.”_

“Exciting. You know, some of those lasses are positively _furry_. I enjoy some variety.”

“North of the Wall,” Brienne reiterated as Jaime schemed silently. “You may find the Wildlings resistant to your... charms. So if that’s the only reason you’re coming with us, you might want to rethink.” 

Rationally, Jaime knew he had two choices. He could (try to) kill Bronn and be done with it, or accept that he was a skilled warrior with experience north of the Wall and may be useful on this mission.

He knew which choice he had to make, but it did not mean that he couldn’t find time for some revenge as well.

“Come now, Brienne,” Jaime said, employing what he hoped was still a charming voice. She seemed baffled by the turn of events- not surprising since they’d barely spoke one kind word to each other, and he was about to support his would-be assassin. “I can think of at least one wildling that would be perfect for him. Long red hair, bright blue eyes, fierce as a bear. Goes by the name of Giantsbane.” He threw her a conspiratorial wink before turning back to his quarry. “Would that satisfy the debt, Bronn?”

The Hound and Podrick pressed hands to their mouths to stifle laughter. Brienne had turned a wonderful shade of pink, but bit her tongue. 

“Giantsbane.” Bronze rolled the name around his tongue, too busy staring into his empty wineskin to notice the faces of those around him. “Not a highborn, but it’s a start. We’ll see if this wild beauty can handle my giant cock, eh?”

“It’ll be a tale for the ages, Ser,” Pod managed to choke out, somehow keeping a straight face as he passed Bronn his own flask as a replacement.

Jaime looked to Brienne, and saw there was now a hint of a smile on her lips. She turned her head away when she caught him looking, but knew that the smile didn’t fade. It felt a little like victory. 

“Mount up, then,” Jaime told Bronn, forcing himself to look away from Brienne. “We’ve a long way to go yet.”

“It’ll be more enjoyable than our last adventure, on account of the fact that you’re not half as pretty anymore.”

Jaime ignored the barb and kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, knowing that somewhere in the frozen North, Bronn’s redheaded comeuppance was waiting.


	7. Jaime V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm a foolish, fragile spine_   
>  _I want all that is not mine_   
>  _All my limbs can become trees_   
>  _All my children can become me_   
>  _What a mess I leave to follow_
> 
> _In the darkness I will meet my creators_  
>  _They will all agree, I'm a suffocator_  
>  _I sometimes wish I'd stayed inside my mother_  
>  _Never to come out_
> 
> _-Smother,_  
>  _Daughter_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's not doing so well. TW for some suicidal thoughts.

# Jaime V

They forged on northwards, and although Jaime would never admit it out loud, found himself glad of Bronn’s presence. The sellsword prattled constantly about the legendary Giantsbane as he planned his seduction of the wildling. His being the butt of the joke but having no idea made it all the more amusing. Even the Hound’s lips quirked every so often as Bronn wondered aloud whether the carpet would match the fiery drapes. 

The real gift was that Brienne was too busy glaring at Bronn to glare at _him_. At first, Jaime thought he might be jealous- annoying her on the road was _his_ job. But since Podrick’s mount was happiest at the back of the group, and The Hound stayed out on the wing, that left Jaime as the only outlet for Brienne’s irritation. Every eye roll she sent his way cheered him more than he deserved.

And Jaime desperately needed cheering.

With every mile and every new ache that extended periods on horseback would create, a weight settled heavier in Jaime’s heart. He remembered the last time he had ridden this route north, and all that had plagued him then returned with a vengeance.

He did not regret breaking away from Cersei, but he could not help but wonder if things would have been different had he stayed. The wheels of the world would have turned differently had his cog rested in a different position, but whether for better or for worse, it was impossible to know. Though he had returned to Cersei in the end, and despite her attempt to have him killed (by the man riding three feet to his left, no less), his broken oath- broken _oaths_ , really- weighed heavy on his aching shoulders.

He could not escape the guilt of riding away from one woman towards another, regardless of which direction it went. All his life, Jaime had loved but one. Things had been simpler, then. As he’d learned as he stood before Aerys and his pyromancers, divided loyalties hurt like nothing else in this world. 

And now, he was putting Brienne through the same. Was she already suffering under the burden of betraying one’s king for the good of the people? It could not sit well with her sense of honour, and despite the amused glances they had begun to share, it was clear how much she still resented his actions that night at Winterfell. He could feel it in the way she turned her back towards him each night, and how she refused to meet his eye come morning.

Gods, would he ever be able to stop hurting those he loved? 

Jaime knew that he should have died in the battle of Winterfell. His last great acts should have been knighting Brienne and fighting for the living. A good man would have been granted that kindness.

A complicated man might have been allowed to die beside Cersei and finally rest.

But the Stranger did not want him yet. He was not worthy of a hero’s sleep. 

As the days dragged by, the speed of the party limited by his body’s weakness and the need to travel cross-country to avoid detection, Jaime’s thoughts became ever more melancholy. He stopped laughing at their torments of Bronn, and even Brienne’s smile began to lose its effect. It was as though the sunlight it generated was trapped behind towering storm clouds.

This decline in his mood was accompanied by a drop in temperature. They were slowly edging northwards, now following the Lakeroad through the Riverlands, and the climate had seemingly not been informed that winter was coming to an end. 

It was after Jaime didn’t so much as crack a smile at Podrick’s bawdiest jokes as they made camp one night that Brienne took him aside. Away from the warmth of the flames, the endless cold found its way beneath his stolen Southern clothes. Jaime shivered and pulled the thin cape close around his shoulders, but it did not help.

“Are you alright?” Brienne asked once they were out of earshot of the others. Her blue eyes glowed with concern in the firelight, and it struck more deeply than the pain and anger that she had expressed in the Lord Commander’s solar. It was too much for Jaime to bear.

“Why do you care?” he snapped, breaking their fragile truce. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm of sharing exasperated glances between long stretches of ignoring each other. It wasn’t easy, but it was reliable.

To her credit, Brienne barely flinched at his caustic tone. She stood tall and strong with her back to the wind, a great stubborn oak in a world of dandelion clocks. “Because we are together in this whether we like it or not. I’ll not fail this mission because you give up.”

“Your confidence in me is truly flattering.”

His sarcasm neither riled nor distracted her. She stepped closer, blocking the wind, but Jaime shivered again nonetheless. It seemed that cold resided in the very marrow of these new bones, but he knew that Brienne’s skin would be warm and soft beneath her armour and furs and disapproving frowns. Her body was far more familiar than the one he now called his own, but that too was lost to him forever.

“I’ve seen you wish you were dead, and I’ve seen you fighting to live. I know you, Jaime. And I’m worried.”

The intensity of her gaze now made him wonder if perhaps she could see the darkness gathering in his breast. There was no use in denying it and no further harm that could come from speaking the truth this time.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“There’s always something.”

She sounded desperate, and Jaime saw her fingers twitch as if she meant to reach out and grasp his hand or face as she tried to save him once more. Perhaps she only intended to rest them upon the pommel of Oathkeeper, which had been abandoned on her bedroll in her haste to corner him alone. He was reminded of a snowy courtyard and frozen tears and every mistake he had ever made.

Jaime turned around, unable to face her.

“Not unless you can bring back summer.”

Jaime walked away. Again.

* * *

That night, Jaime felt Brienne watching him like he was some dangerous animal that might turn on her at any time- like he was still a lion with a golden mane and all his claws. Like he was still a Lannister.

Thoughts of lions and summertime conjured memories of the sunsoaked days of his childhood. He’d spent his days exploring the waters of Casterly Rock with Cersei, who had yet to be cruel, and his friends amongst the smallfolk, who had yet to learn the difference in their stations. 

Then came thoughts of his own children, born beneath the golden sun of King’s Landing. Each one had been a little like a star, beautiful and gleaming, and yet eternally untouchable. They had burned so brightly and for such a short time. By the time he could hold them in his arms, they were already dead. 

Jaime Lannister’s legacy had ended long before he took his last breaths beneath the Red Keep. 

He wondered if Brienne had updated his entry in the Book of Brothers. What an epic finale that would be. Ser Jaime; discharged form position as Lord Commander. Total number of monarchs dead under his time as Kingsguard- four. A cowardly, hateful man ‘til the bitter end.

No. Brienne would never desecrate the sacred book with such embarrassing words. She’d have left it as it was, or torn the page out entirely had she any sense. 

The furtive, concerned glances she kept throwing his way as she whispered to Pod made him wonder if he was giving her wisdom too much credit.

Even after everyone had bedded down for the night, her eyes remained on him. She lay facing him from across the flames, keeping a pre-emptive vigil. The weight of the responsibility she was placing on her own shoulders was crushing him too, and Jaime could stand it no more.

He got up, muttered that he was only going for a piss when she made as if to follow, and left the relative warmth of their forested camp. He only stumbled twice on the trek through the cold Riverland muck before he found himself upon the shore of the Gods Eye.

The great lake stretched so far into the distance that he could have believed it a sea, if not for the still black surface, as smooth as a looking glass. And yet, Jaime knew that below the deceptively calm water there lay deadly currents that can drag unwary bathers to their deaths, and that the bank was steep and smooth. To step into the iron-grey waters of the Gods Eye in winter was to drown.

Jaime walked forward until and the water lapped at his boots; hungry, searching, beckoning him further. The lake was an artist’s impression of serenity in the darkness, all blurred edges and the kind of soft shadows that could only form under moonlight. A single black swan sailed by like a ghost in the night, a dark freak of nature that would not exist if not for the twisted whim of the Gods. He may as well have been looking at his own reflection for how much he could recognise the person looking back. 

Beyond the far-off horizon lay the Isle of Faces, a sacred and defiant stronghold of the Old Gods that were, it transpired, actually the New Gods, and every other god that idiots worshipped the world over. Wars had been fought over entities that were one and the same; entities that Jaime had never given a fuck about or even believed in. And now he was enlightened and embroiled in another holy struggle, and there was no way out.

Jaime had not asked for this. He’d breathed his last dusty breath beneath the Red Keep and felt the rocks hit his back and felt nothing but relief, at the very end of all things.

He did not want _this_. So many battles, so much war, humanity engaged again and again over money and power and deities of their own making. Perhaps the Raven was doing them a favour, and it was better that the ranks of the living should slowly dwindle to nothing. Better that than they continue to swell, fucking and fighting and tearing each other apart, on and on into eternity.

But it did not matter what Jaime thought, if he even truly believed that. He was not naïve enough to believe he was alive because of the Gods’ goodwill. He was an indentured servant, sent to do their bidding until they took back this borrowed body and cast his soul into the depths of hell where it belonged. 

_Valar morghulis._

What was the point of this continued struggle? He was without family, without honour, and without the one friend he thought he’d never be able to fuck things up with.

Jaime’s right sock was growing wet; there must be a hole in his boot. The Gods Eye was beginning to claim him toe by toe. He told himself that the only reason he did not keep walking into the lake is that the gods would just bring him straight back again. His life is not his to squander. Like the Unsullied, he is a soldier, bought and paid for, existing only to fulfil the purpose of his master.

_Valar doherys._

But somewhere deep inside, under all his dull rage, Jaime knew that he could never take those final steps, even his life was his to take. He was not able to run away from Aerys Targaryan when every instinct screamed at him to flee. He couldn’t leave Brienne in the hands of Bolton’s men despite his desperation to return to Cersei. He hadn’t been able to leave Cersei to the fate she deserved even when he wanted nothing more than to stay in Winterfell.

Jaime has never been able to walk away from a fight, even when it’s what he wants more than anything in the world.

He misses Cersei, then, with a ferocity that is surprising.

Well perhaps not _Cersei_ , exactly, but the way she made him feel- like nothing else mattered outside of the two of them. With Cersei, there was no right and wrong, no concern for honour or courage. There was just their shared soul and the bodies that housed it and doing what felt good.

If Cersei were here, she’d hold him close and say _fuck them all_ , _the gods and the sheep, we are lions,_ and he’d ignore the sickness in his guts and she would concoct some great scheme to bring the world to its knees under her dominion. He’d stand by and watch with awe as this strong, clever, beautiful girl carved out a place for herself in a world that refused to give anything for free.

But that was what had got her killed, got a whole damn city killed, and allowed a dark creature to take her precious throne. So Jaime would have to do what he had always done- suffer the consequences of her actions and try to limit the worst of the damage.

He was so fucking tired of it, and for a moment, he was almost glad she was gone.

It didn’t matter whether he loved her or hated her now, wanted her or resented her. Even if he could decipher the tangled mix of feelings that he late sisterlover inspired in him, it wouldn’t bring her back. It wouldn’t bring their children back. He wouldn’t be able to join her, even if he had wanted to.

Jaime stepped back out of the grey water and sat on the stony shore, pebbles pressing into his arse like the swords of the Iron Throne after he’d killed the Mad King. He’d smiled then, young and half-mad himself with it all. He wasn’t smiling now.

He removed a particularly sharp rock and threw it as far as he could into the Gods Eye, watching the ripples span out like the consequences of every wicked choice he’d ever made. He cursed the Gods for meddling in his fate, and prayed that whatever may happen to him on this ill-starred quest, that his friends would not suffer.

When the sun’s first rays turned the lakewater to molten steel, Jaime wiped his eyes on a singed and dirty sleeve and stumbled back to camp.

In the golden light of dawn, Jaime saw a familiar wolf-fur cloak folded atop his messy bedroll, and the tears finally spilled over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I wrote depressed!Jaime again


	8. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I used to roll the dice_   
>  _Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes_   
>  _Listen as the crowd would sing_   
>  _Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!_   
>  _-Viva La Vida,_   
>  _Coldplay_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get a glimpse at what is happening back in King's Landing. Tyrion remains blind to some things but begins to understand others. He may still be fighting for the title of stupidest Lannister, though.

#  Tyrion I

In the three moons or so since Tyrion had somehow talked his way from traitor to kingmaker in the dust of the Dragonpit, he had considered many times how he had been so fortunate to be pardoned for treason and then granted another chance as Hand. It was a job he had loved and hated in equal measure, it was true, but it was what he desired nonetheless. All good things, like wine and women, must bring both pleasure and pain. 

Over time, Tyrion came to understand that being the Hand of King Brandon was not comparable to his previous two positions. Both times he had acted as both a war advisor and a barrier against the monarchs’ deadlier urges, with mixed results. King Bran needed no such direction. Tyrion was left the day-to-day running of the realm such as his father had experienced with Aerys, but Bran showed none of that King’s madness, only distraction, at times. When he wasn’t in that trance-like state that meant his consciousness inhabited the skin of some other creature, Bran was calm and honest and full of advice for his Council, often anecdotal due to his strange powers.

King Bran resolved conflicts twice as quickly as any other man due to his innate knowledge of the truth and spent little time fretting over any choices placed in front of him. Though he did not take on many duties, those he took responsibility for were handled gracefully and quickly, leaving him time each day to search for the missing dragon or watch his kingdom from a bird’s eye view.

Those priorities began to shift after the Hound returned from the dead and Brienne disappeared. He held court less often and ‘flew’ more, leaving Tyrion to deal with the matters he saw as more trivial. He, the imp, had been handed the keys to the realm, but they were heavy, and it was lonely work.

Tyrion finally started to worry about King Bran when he departed on one of his ‘flights’ and didn’t regain consciousness until the sun had risen and set twice over. He worried for the health of the boy, and for the safety of those the boy sought.

He wished that Brienne were here, or Podrick, for they tended to be the ones to handle Bran at his worst. Tyrion had joked that he was less the King’s hand than his legs, and Tyrion’s short legs are no good for pushing wheelchairs or coaxing Bran from his mysterious not-sleeps. Pod would know what to do, but Pod was not here. Ironically, Pod was part of the reason for the King’s reluctance to return to his own body.

When Brienne first left King’s Landing with the Hound, Bran had been worried. _He couldn’t see them_ , he’d repeated, growing increasingly frustrated. Tyrion saw it as little more than a curiosity at first. Of course there would be spots in Bran’s vision- nothing was perfect, after all. Everybody had off days. If not that, then perhaps the nature of the mission, being connected to the Lord of Light as it was, altered Bran’s vision. All these excuses Tyrion offered up, and it seemed to soothe Bran a little.

Tyrion was excelling at this Hand of the King role, if he did say so himself.

But then Bronn left, and Bran followed him on the wing as far along the Kingsroad as Brindlewood. And then Bronn too had disappeared, and everything had begun to fall apart.

The King was certain that this meant that Bronn had met up with the other party, for there could not be _two_ blindspots. But that had to mean that Brienne and her companions were not travelling South-East as she had told Tyrion she intended to do, but due North.

Anything that could cause Brienne to lie was apparently enough to send the King into a new level of panic, for he had ordered a company of soldiers to search the place where he had last ‘seen’ Bronn and started disappearing into his head for hours upon hours at a time. It surpassed even the lengths for which he had been unconscious whilst searching for Drogon- a search which had now entirely dropped from his list of priorities.

So, yes. Tyrion was afraid for Bran, and he was afraid for Brienne and her companions. He refused to believe that they were up to anything nefarious- this was _Brienne_ , after all, and Pod- but he did not trust Bran’s paranoia. It was an attribute he had seen far too recently in a monarch, and the thought that calm, dependable Bran could become so afraid over something so small worried him greatly.

It had been more than a sennight since Bronn’s disappearance, and Tyrion could take this anxiety no more. He could see only one course of action. After all, the person who had first seen Daenerys’ flaws also had the advantage of being related to Bran.

He wrote to Sansa.

_~~Your Grace, Queen Sansa,~~ _

_Sansa,  
Trust that I would not write to you of this if I were not greatly concerned. _

_The King’s behaviour has been growing increasingly worrying over the past moon. I am afraid primarily for his health, and also for the affairs of the Kingdom. Please understand that I write to you now not as a monarch of a neighbouring state, but as a sister who cares deeply for her brother._

_If you can spare the time away from Winterfell, I believe that King Bran would find your presence here hugely beneficial. You may be able to provide him with some clarity where those here cannot._

_He has written to you, of course, of Ser Brienne’s apparent journey North, and of his concerns surrounding the situation. Please, come and help us understand what is going on. You know her perhaps better than anyone ~~yet living~~. _

_Yours,_

_Tyrion._

The quill snapped when Tyrion scratched out those last words. To leave them upon the page would be to invoke the ghost of the one person who had known Brienne the best, and to whom Tyrion now wished he could turn for advice. Was that loss what sent her so off-course now?

The wait for a reply saw the moon wane and go dark, and Bran showed no signs of improvement. There had been some Small Council meetings in between his ‘flights’, called mainly by Davos or sometimes Tyrion, but the council was now so very small that discussion soon returned to those who are absent.

It was one such occasion a couple of days after Tyrion had sent the letter that Bran fixed him with a knowing stare colder than the winds of winter.

“You sent a letter to my sister.”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“About me.”

It was not a question, and yet Tyrion did not know if Bran knew any more of the theme of the letter.

Davos, the craven shit, chose that moment to strike up a conversation with Sam and drag him from the room. Tyrion thought the Onion Knight would have been braver in the face of a King who was barely more than a child, but apparently, this was one conversation he did not wish to be a part of.

Tyrion watched them leave the room to buy himself a moment to collect his thoughts. He was treading dangerous waters, he knew, but it is nowhere he hasn’t been before. Tyrion was built to think fast in the face of danger- it had saved his life a hundred times over, as well as being a point of pride.

“Your Grace, I am concerned for you. The amount of time you have been spending _flying_ is having an impact on your body. You’re missing meals, and your exercises with the Maester. It isn’t healthy.”

Bran appeared to thaw a little. “You are my Hand, and it is your job to advise me. But trust that I know the limits of this body, just as you know yours. Flying is less harmful than drinking, wouldn’t you agree? And yet, you are still here.”

“I am still here, Your Grace.” Tyrion could not argue with that.

Feeling chastised in a way he hadn’t since his father’s death, Tyrion bowed and scuttled from the room. The walk from the council rooms back to his chambers was elongated by myriad reconstruction works still underway to fix the damage Daenerys had wrought on the Keep. A mason dropped a chisel which almost pierced Tyrion’s skull as he stepped around a corner, leaving him even more nervous than before. When he poured a goblet of wine upon reaching the safety of his bedchamber, it was with a larger than normal dose of self-loathing.

Tyrion anxiously awaited advice from Sansa on what could be done about her brother and their wayward friends. His forte lay in aiding those in power with whatever they desired, strategising and advising, and occasionally tempering their more disturbing wishes. When it came to understanding people and their motivations, his best work was done from afar. Tyrion’s stature- both physical and societal- allowed him to observe the intricacies of courtly life from a safe distance and act accordingly, seeking assistance from others in the shadows.

He could not use espionage to get the measure of Bran's motives or plans; that was the King’s ace to play. He needed somebody whose power lay in understanding those in front of them.

Sansa had been a pawn since before she became a woman, dragged across the chessboard of Westeros behind rooks and bishops and cruel little kings. That was, until, one by one, she orchestrated their demise and crossed the board to become Queen herself, filling the power vortex her enemies left behind. Sansa Stark was the only person Tyrion could think of that had played the game of thrones and won.

She was a marvel, and he missed her, he realised.

When her reply finally arrived late one evening, Tyrion almost tore off the bird’s leg in his haste to remove the scroll. He nodded his thanks to the creature, just in case the King was looking out through those obsidian eyes, and retired to his bedchamber to read it. For half a second he debated taking it to the privy to read- surely Bran would not attempt to follow him there. But then, taking the letter in there at all could be seen as suspicious. Perhaps he was overthinking it all. Tyrion had been Hand for moons now, and he still did not understand the extent of Bran’s vision.

Perhaps an omnipotent King was not such a good idea after all.

In the end, Tyrion took the letter to bed in what he hoped is a casual enough manner. By candlelight, he read;

_Lord Tyrion, Hand of King Brandon of the Six Kingdoms,_

_I must confess that I share your concerns. I have lately received a letter from my brother asking me to place soldiers along the Kingsroad to watch for Ser Brienne’s party and to apprehend them at any cost. I began preparations to leave as soon as this missive was received._

_Though I ride South tomorrow, please note that I do not do so at your summons. It would be inappropriate for a Queen to follow the request of a neighbouring Kingdom’s Hand. Besides, I believe that this is indeed a matter of concern from a neighbouring state, as well as a concerned sister._

_I hope that my presence will be of benefit to Bran, and also to you. Ser Brienne is not the only one whom I know well. I understand you well enough, My Lord, to see that you are fretting over a conundrum you cannot solve. Wait until I arrive at least before you send yourself mad with worry. I am the cleverer of the two of us, after all._

_Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, first of her name._

Even with his intelligence being called into question, Tyrion found himself laughing for the first time in days.


	9. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I know things change, your world has slipped away._   
>  _I know things change, but you're living like a soldier_   
>  _Who's caught in the fray._   
>  _Don't lose your faith,_   
>  _It's not so cold,_   
>  _It's not too late_   
>  _-Soldier,_   
>  _Goo Goo Dolls_   
> 

# Brienne III

Brienne’s emotions had swung back and forth a hundred times since Jaime walked into the White Sword Tower, but over the last few days, they had settled into a somewhat steady beat of rising concern for this man with a stranger’s face.

Whilst the rest of the party relaxed more with every league they put between themselves and King’s Landing, grumbling about the weather aside, Jaime was growing increasingly closed-off. He was talking less, eating less, sleeping less.

She had seen this before. _My swordhand. I was that hand._

Now, he’d lost so much more than a hand. His family was either dead or believed him to be, and the strength he’d tried so hard to cultivate in his left side had been washed away by salt and smoke.

All things considered, Brienne was impressed by Jaime’s adjustment to rebirth in a new earthly shell. So much of his identity had been based on his Lannister name and Lannister good looks. The only thing he’d had of his own had been his sword hand.

Towards the end, when he had ridden North, done what he truly believed to be right, he’d begun writing his own story. Even the tragic ending had been of his own design, for once not following his sister’s bidding, but his own heart. Now he had been dragged back from the void and given a quest he did not believe in.

But for the sake of this quest, and for the oaths she had sworn to herself in the Northern darkness, she had to do something. Still hurt from his words, if not so much his actions, Brienne did not know what to say to bring Jaime back to himself. She did not think that harsh promises of revenge would work this time, for he was not at all the same man he once was, however much he had insisted otherwise that night in Winterfell. 

Fortunately, she thought she might know him better now than she did all those years ago.

He’d had nights like this at Winterfell, when the cold or fatigue would reduce his resilience to the darkness that lived inside his soul. The nightmares would come, then, if he actually managed to sleep, so she’d hold him and kiss his brow as he cried. She couldn’t do that now- he wouldn’t accept it, and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to give to the man that had almost stolen all the tenderness from her heart.

The convoy had been following the narrow lanes that roughly flanked the Kingsoad north, traversing the firm paths at dusk and dawn and moving under the cover of trees during daylight hours. They were spending their last night under the relative protection of trees before they were forced to break cover to cross the Trident. Beyond the river, the colder temperatures would force them to travel by night keep moving through the worst of the cold, meaning that they could risk sticking to the Kingsroad and riding at speed. But first, they would need provisions, including winter cloaks for those in the party that had not thought to bring their own. Brienne had been planning to send Pod and Jaime- the least recognisable of the group- to Darry to purchase supplies before they crossed the river, but it was clear that given his current state, that would not be possible.

Still, Brienne was not Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for nothing. She’d thought of an alternate plan that filled her with dread and hope in equal measure.

The sun was just past its zenith when Brienne turned her horse west.

“You fallen asleep up there?” the Hound shouted from behind. She didn’t grace it with a response.

“Ser.” Pod spurred his horse on and drew level with her. “This isn’t the way to Darry.”

“I know.” She made sure she spoke loud enough for the rest of the party to hear. “It’s the way to Harrenhal.”

That, it seemed, was enough to overcome even Jaime’s reluctance to speak. “Why the hell are we going to Harrenhal?” he asked, voice gruff from lack of use.

“For provisions and a good night’s rest. We can’t risk an inn at Darry.”

His indignant expression was painfully familiar, yet it was one she had not seen on this face before. “Who gave you the right to make that decision? Last I checked, this was _my_ quest.”

“Since we each carry half of Lightbringer, I’d say it’s _our_ quest.” She saw Podrick grin out the corner of her eye. “When you’re ready to act as a leader, instead of just _going away inside,_ feel free to pitch in.”

No, goading him with harsh words would not be sufficient to bring Jaime out of his depression this time around, but it was a place to start.

Jaime lapsed back into silence after that, but he did seem a little more aware of their surroundings as they followed the northern shore of the God’s Eye. When the shattered tip of Harrenhal’s tallest tower first pierced the sky, Brienne noticed a shudder pass through him. Her own memories of the cursed castle stirred like bats in the corners of her mind, and the scars on her neck and shoulder prickled in response.

When the horses realised their destination, all but Stranger slowed and shifted uncomfortably. The great black beast was undeterred, and Brienne relinquished the lead to him, despite little Stark’s displeasure. They followed the hulking figure of horse and Hound as more turrets came into view, each more warped than the last. Finally, the curtain wall was visible beyond the crest of the horizon, obscuring the rest of the ruinous rat’s maze that the great keep had become.

They entered the bailey through the smaller East Gate, not wanting to risk the twenty murder holes of the main gate. Although Brienne was confident that no lord has attempted to claim the land after Petry Baelish’s death, and the King commented on its abandoned state only weeks ago, there was no guarantee that a few beggars had not taken up residence in the crippled halls since then. Even the most wizened of crones could defend the castle against a force of five entering through the main gate, using little more than a vat of hot pitch.

Despite its scars, the castle was still impenetrable from the ground should its inhabitants wish it to be. From above, it was as vulnerable as a kitten. Once ravaged by fire, the old stone had now fallen victim to the whims of the other elements, growing pockmarked by wind and rain and the bitter cold. Brienne’s eyes lingered on the piles of masonry that once belonged to vaulted ceilings but now lay shattered on the courtyard floor. It reminded her of the ruins of another keep ravaged by a great black dragon, and of the bodies found beneath the rubble.

Brienne swallowed the bile rising in her gorge and nudged her horse closer to Jaime’s as they rode into the middle ward; a dark training yard with an uneven floor. It was claustrophobic here, with all five surrounding towers seeming to lean inwards like the ceiling of some wicked sept. Brienne staunchly ignored the place to her right where the ground dropped away, where she knew the bearpit was hidden.

“I hate this fucking place.” Bronn’s voice shattered the dark spell woven by the screaming wind.

“Really? I’m surprised you didn’t demand Harrenhal instead of Highgarden once you realised it was empty,” griped the Hound.

“Not a chance. This place fucking bleeds money.” The Hound looked surprised by Bronn’s shrewd appraisal. “You really think they’d have appointed me Master of Coin if I were that bad with gold?”

“Seeing how the King wants to run this country into the ground, that would be ideal for him.”

“Then he underestimated me, just like all you cunts.” Bronn spurred his horse on, and Brienne felt a rare shred of solidarity with the man. He was crass and thoughtless and downright cruel at times, but like her, he’d defied the expectations of his birth.

“Come,” Brienne said, hoping to prevent the argument from escalating. Bronn and Sandor enjoyed antagonising each other, and she did not want to waste their time here with senseless bickering. “It’ll be dark soon. Sandor, take the South, Bronn, take the North side- make sure we’re alone, and bring water if you find the well. Pod, go with Sandor and check the stables for anything we can use. We’ll keep the horses near us tonight, but they need feeding. Jaime?” She hoped he would offer some input to the immediate plan, or even that he would argue against hers.

“The well’s near the stables,” Jaime added, and that was all.

The men left to follow their orders, leaving Brienne and Jaime in the yard.

“Come,” she repeated softly. “We’ve a lot of hearths to stoke, and I’m still not convinced you know how to use that flaming sword.”

He didn’t even rise to her snipe, and the worry she’d been feeling for days rose again. She hoped she’d made the right decision by bringing him here.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was, like the rest of the castle, in a sorry state of disrepair. Long wooden tables lay on their sides as though they had been turned over in a great rush to exit. Some appeared to have been used for target practice and carried the scars of knives and arrows. If conflict was not the cause, then boredom surely had been. Still, enough furniture remained serviceable that a small camp could be set up halfway down the hall, especially once a fat black rat had been evicted from the stuffing of a velvet armchair. Despite her earlier concern, Brienne was able to leave Jaime to stoking fires whilst she righted benches and rescued soft furnishings from the rodents that had made the castle their home. 

Pod and the Hound were the first to return, each covered in a little more dust than they had been when they’d left. They’d found hay and water, and had seen the horses safely stabled in the first atrium of the Kingspyre tower. Pod busied himself setting pails of water beside the roaring fires Jaime lit whilst the Hound settled into the now rat-free chair and seemed to fall immediately asleep.

Brienne stared at the door until Bronn too came clattering through, arms laden with moth bitten sacks.

“Nobody else here,” he announced cheerfully, “Hasn’t been in a while, judging by the stocks.” He dropped his spoils onto the long table, letting them roll out of the sacks. Packets of dried and salted meat, crocks of pickled vegetables and small parcels of fruit confit piled onto the table. Bronn had scarcely removed a bottle from his pocket before the Hound was out of his chair and grasping for it like a man dying of thirst.

“Easy, plenty more where that came from!” Bronn said, pulling another from the other pocket. “Plenty more of all of it, really. We can feast tonight and still have enough for the journey. The way back too, I’d wager.”

Despite her gratitude, anger bubbled in Brienne’s gut. Littlefinger had clearly kept the castle well-stocked despite the skeleton forces he’d left manning it, and these had been left behind when they fled. The King must have known of these great stores, so why hadn’t he sent a raven to those at Harrentown to inform them of the bounty? Though the war had ended, the famine that had accompanied it raged on, and spring was slow in coming. These stores would have provided respite for smallfolk whose only crime was being too afraid of the cursed keep to come scavenging.

Still, a little of this anger wore off when Brienne noticed how Jaime was staring at the food being set out before them.

“Alright,” Brienne agreed, nodding her thanks at Bronn. “We’ll eat well tonight. But first, we must search for other provisions. Pod, with me.” She lifted Oathkeeper and willed the blade to ignite. “The rest of you prepare a hot meal, and try not to eat everything before we return.” 

In the darkness of the Kingspyre tower, there were a couple of missteps before Brienne found the staircase leading to the Lord’s solar, and beyond that, the private chambers. Pod had lit a torch of his own by this point, but darkness was slowly creeping through the hallways of the ruins. Shadows slipped along the floor like serpents with every cloud that crossed the moon.

The ever-shifting patterns of shadow kept making Podrick jump, the torchlight guttering each time, but his steps did not falter behind hers. Brienne was proud. She had heard tales of seasoned knights running screaming from this fortress over the years and had to admit that she understood the urge herself. Yet they forged on ever higher as the corridor narrowed and the windows became increasingly obscured by great globs of once-molten stone.

“Where are we looking for, Ser?” Pod asked as they turned away from yet another dead end. He’d been patient thus far, but the cold was creeping through the walls, and the torch was burning low.

“The Lord’s and Lady’s quarters are around here somewhere. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of furs there to clothe us all in the North.” So much fur, in fact, that even the collars of ugly pink dresses would be adorned in it.

“What if there isn’t?”

“Then we’ll have to head for Darry after all.”

Thankfully, Brienne was right. Wardrobes filled with Northern garb from Bolton and even Lannister occupation yielded plenty of supplies, even once those bearing prominent house colours had been rejected.

Of all the travellers, Brienne and Pod were best prepared for the trip north. Both had brought with them the clothes that Sansa had gifted them with at Winterfell, and only extras such as hats and mittens would be needed. The rest of the group was woefully unprepared and would require full outfits suitable for the harsh winter north of the wall.

Pod was admiring a great thick bearskin that had been fashioned into a coat but remained almost entirely intact, almost as if had been made by somebody without skill in needlework but plenty of experience in skinning game. The head formed a hood, and the sleeves were the front legs of the bear. When he slipped it on, the fur fell forwards and obscured his face. Pod laughed, but Brienne’s blood turned to ice.

She _knew_ that bear.

“Take it off,” she growled.

Pod laughed again. “It is a bit big. I’ll give it to the Hound.”

Brienne was in more of a mind to burn it, but she forced herself to breathe deeply and see reason. That coat would keep the wearer very warm indeed, and it wouldn’t do to waste supplies in such a way. Besides, the bear was dead, and _she_ was alive.

She did intend to remove the claws before the night was through, though.

“Good idea,” Pod said when she mentioned this and threw the coat into the trunk they had packed. “We might be able to trade with them.”

“Something like that.” The lid of the trunk thudded shut, almost taking off Pod’s fingers and making him jump. “Take that cloak,” she said, gesturing to an elegant black wolfskin hanging by the hearth, which she remembered being worn by Roose Bolton.

Pod draped it around his shoulders and fixed the thick leather straps around his chest. The fit was a little snug, but it would keep him warm. The foxskin curled around his neck would be particularly welcome in the North. There was only one problem with the cloak.

Brienne stepped forward and, using the very tip of Oathkeeper, shucked the insignia of the flayed man from the point where the leather straps crossed. With a grim smile, she tossed the vile trinket into a dark corner where it could become one with the dust and decay, one more useless relic in this carcass of a castle.


	10. Jaime VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Around the shadows creep ___  
>  _Like friends, they cover me ___  
>  _Just wanna lay me down and finally ___  
>  _Try to get some sleep ___  
>  _We carry on through the storm ___  
>  _Tired soldiers in this war ___  
>  _Remember what we're fighting for ___  
>  _Meet me on the battlefield ___  
>  _Even on the darkest night ___  
>  _I will be your sword and shield, your camouflage ___  
>  _And you will be mine ___  
>  _-Meet Me on the Battlefield, ___  
>  _Svrcina ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bronn and Sandor briefly become Gordon Ramsay, Brienne has had enough of Jaime being an Idiot Sandwich, and Pod just wants his dinner godsdammit.

# Jaime VI

Jaime, on account of his single hand and pampered upbringing, hadn’t been of much help in preparing dinner. He couldn’t carve meat, and he didn’t know enough about herbs to assist with the seasoning. It seemed he wasn’t good for anything at all these days. When he tried to stir the pot- a task surely suited to even the most simple-minded of cripples- Bronn had tsked him out of the way and done it himself, on top of watching the meat cook. Pod stripped sprigs of some twiggy herbs and the Hound cleaned the residual blood and grease from the knife he had used to cut the meat; a task he had appeared to enjoy very much.

Ousted from the food preparation area like a bothersome child, Jaime curled in a threadbare chair in front of one of the fires and stared into the flames for a while, cursing the Lord of Light with a collection of Tyrion’s most creative insults. Then, he counted the number of hearths in the hall to see if there were truly a hundred (there were only 72; he felt somewhat cheated). Once he’d confirmed that number twice more, he simply stared at the door and waited for Brienne to return through it.

It was not a terribly long wait in truth, but the gnawing anxiety of being in this cursed place, and the ache of his empty belly, made it seem an eternity before the telltale clatter of armour and a heavy body heralded her arrival.

“About fucking time,” the Hound grumbled. “Will you tell this idiot that the food’s done? He’s burning it.”

“It’s still fucking raw!” Bronn protested. “We’re not all animals that enjoy tearing into uncooked meat.”

Brienne sighed like a weary mother with better things to be doing and poked at the offending venison. “It’s rare, but it’ll do. We’re not cooking for the King.”

Neither Clegane nor Bronn were happy with that answer, arguing that it was both overcooked and undercooked in turn. Podrick suggested that this was, then, an acceptable compromise and finally ended the argument by removing the pottage from the cauldron and serving it into the battered bowls they had found. Unwilling to let this go cold, Bronn huffed but added the venison to the dish too.

The sight of these steaming bowls of hot, nutritious food gave the Jaime the strength to rise from his chair and join the rest of the group around the low table where the places had been set. As he sat down, Brienne quietly switched his bowl with her own. She’d already cut the venison into small pieces. This kindness was more than he had expected from her.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice rough from disuse. Brienne only lifted an armoured shoulder in acknowledgement and dug into her own meal. Jaime followed suit, and could not help a small grunt of pleasure escaping in response to the rich fare. He knew that Bronn appreciated fine food and had been forced to cook for himself all his life, but even so, what he had managed to do with the stores of the Harrenhal kitchens was sublime.

After weeks of subsiding on thin broth, or worse, hardtack and handfuls of wild vegetables, a good hot meal felt like a miracle in itself. The warmth suffused from his stomach to the tips of his borrowed limbs, and Jaime closed his eyes and let the feeling wash over him like a summer tide.

“Our Pod might have the magic cock, but it seems I’m the magic cook,” Bronn joked.

“Still overcooked,” Clegane grumbled around a mouthful of venison, chewing far more than he needed to in an attempt to get his point across.

“Shut up and have a drink you miserable fuck.” Jaime’s eyes were forced open again when ale sloshed from a cup Bronn’s cup and onto his sleeve. “Pod, sing for us, will you? It’ll be like a proper banquet in here. I’ve grown quite used to courtly life.”

Pod dutifully swallowed and opened his mouth to sing but Brienne interrupted, “let the boy eat first. I know you’re trying to distract him so you can take his share of what’s left.”

Bronn laughed. “Was worth a try. Would be nice to have a bit of song later though; drown out that wind.”

Pod smiled. “I’ll try my best, Ser. Are there seconds, then?”

Though there was no meat left, the five of them each got another half-bowl of potage. Brienne offered to serve it, though Jaime thought she only did so to ensure that he and Pod ended up with larger servings than was strictly equitable. The extra probably came out of her own portion. He must look truly starved for her to show him such kindness, and he dumped a spoonful back into her bowl when she wasn’t looking. Clegane saw, but only raised one eyebrow in response before continuing to slurp the thick stew straight from the bowl. Perhaps his lack of table manners were the real reason he was called the Hound.

Once every plate was scraped clean- licked clean, in Clegane’s case- and the tableware had been thrown into the empty cauldron and was soaking in ashen water, Bronn revealed a flask of wine. Arbor Gold. Hard to tell whether it was left by Tywin or Littlefinger. Either way, Jaime wouldn’t be partaking. 

“Ready for that song now Podrick?”

“If you’ll pass me that?” Pod clearly did not share Jaime’s reluctance to drink a dead man’s wine. After a deep swig from the flask Pod got up and positioned himself in front of the hearth. Then he stard straight ahead, which just happened to be straight at Jaime, and began to sing. 

_High in the halls of the Kings who are gone_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts_

_The ones she had lost and the ones she had found_

Jaime stood up, almost tripping over the bench he had been sitting on. Memories assaulted him; Pod, in Winterfell, singing on the eve of the Long Night. Endless cold and screaming and pain, hacking again and again with Widow’s Wail until it seemed there was nothing beyond this purgatory. Another fire, fumbling at the ties of his shirt, strong fingers catching his-

The vision shattered as in the present those same fingers gripped the end of his right arm.

_And the ones who had loved her the most_

“Podrick’s busy, and I need a sparring partner,” Brienne’s voice said, anchoring him back into reality. She pressed his sword into his hand, and his fingers clenched around the hilt so hard it hurt. “Come. There’s space just outside the hall.”

Jaime allowed himself to be led out of the Hall of a Hundred (or seventy-two) Hearths, ignoring the hesitance in Pod’s song and Bronn’s snide comments.

He hadn’t been there. He couldn’t possibly understand.

When they reached the vestibule of the great building, Jaime breathed deeply through his nose. The cold stung his lungs but it was a relief after the smoky interior of the Hall and the memories of burning. His fingers were not so grateful for the drop in temperature. He started down at them, half expecting to see the frost begin to nip.

Light flared from Oathkeeper, immediately warming the air in front of him.

“Thank you,” Jaime said for the second time that night, for both the heat and the escape from the Hall.

“It was unwise of Pod to choose that song,” she said, and Jaime nodded dumbly. He lifted Widow’s Light, trying to ignite the sword, but to no avail. “You need to practice,” Brienne scolded. “And not just with the flames.”

She took a step away, taking the warmth and the light with her, and dropped into a fighting stance.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ve not swung that sword once since you were resurrected. If you’re going to be prepared for what’s to come, you need to regain your strength.”

Jaime waved his stump in her face. “The Gods didn’t give me a new hand; they gave me you. That means the fighting is your job.”

With a snarl, Brienne fell on him, and Jaime scarcely had time to raise his sword before her own flaming weapon clashed against where his head had been scarcely a moment before.

She stepped back, one side of her mouth curving up in satisfaction. “Good. You haven’t completely given up.”

“I might as well, I’m weaker than a babe.”

“Because you haven’t been training. That changes now. I’m not going to let you keep wasting away, Jaime.”

“Perhaps you should leave me here and go north alone, then. I’ve heard the kitchens are very well stocked.”

Brienne lunged again and this time, Jaime caught her blow before it could get dangerously close to decapitating him.

“We’ll have better rations from now on, but you know that’s not what I’m talking about. You need work hard to rebuild your strength.”

“It’ll never be enough. Besides, everything’s… different. I’m not used to this form. My instincts are all wrong.”

Brienne lashed out with the flat of her blade and struck him on his right shoulder. The fabric was singed, but Jaime was not hurt. “Stop making excuses and _try_.”

This time, their swords met above their heads, and the brightness above Jaime doubled. Glancing up, he saw that Widow’s Light was also ablaze. Brienne grinned fiercely in the firelight, half fury and half elation.

Emboldened by this small victory, Jaime fell into a fighting posture that mirrored hers. Though there were only two lit torches in this corridor, the two haves of Lightbringer cast more than enough to see by. They’d survived the pitch-black battle of the Long Night- this was far easier.

Though the sword felt heavy in Jaime’s hand and his shoulders burned already with the effort of lifting it, his mind remembered a rhythm that this body had never moved to. Back and forth across the flagstones they began to dance, slowly at first, but accompanied by the song of Valerian steel. This was no squire’s game, but life and death, measured as it was.

When Jaime lost his grip on the sword and doubled over to catch his breath, its flames were not extinguished. The black marble floor, already so tortured by fire, seemed to ripple like tar under Widow’s Light.

“Again,” Brienne commanded. “We go again.”

Jaime raised a hand. “I need a minute.”

The tip of Oathkeeper abruptly appeared under his nose. “There are no breaks in battle. Pick it up and try again.”

Jaime growled in frustration, but did as she said nonetheless. He felt stronger after the good meal, but that wouldn’t last forever. The quicker they got this over with, the better. Jaime knew there was no arguing with Brienne when she was like this. If he resisted, she’d probably enlist Bronn for help, and he’d have no misgivings about aiming below the belt.

They sparred for perhaps another fifteen minutes, during which time Jaime ended up on his arse twice more, and Brienne glared until he got up on each occasion. After the third defeat, however, her fighting grimace fell away and she lowered Oathkeeper as Jaime clambered to his feet.

“Not bad,” she said as she readjusted the straps of her blue armour.

“Not _good,_ either.” 

“True, but you’ll improve, Ser Jaime. It’s all inside you still.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not a knight.”

“Yes, you are.” Her tone was one of bafflement.

“I’m _not_. Jaime Lannister was a knight, courtesy of Ser Arthur Dayne. This-,” he indicated the stolen body he now inhabited, “I am no knight anymore.”

Brienne’s frown morphed into something resembling offence. “This is not a matter of body or titles. When you knighted me, it was because I possessed qualities you believed made a good knight. Honour, duty, strength, bravery. You may not be a Lannister anymore, but you are still the same man. You are still the same knight, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime could not hold her eye whilst she stared at him with such conviction in his knightly conduct. It filled him with shame and a fair amount of confusion. Hadn’t his actions at Winterfell convinced her otherwise? “I’m sorry, Ser Brienne, but I just don’t see it.”

Brienne grabbed his sleeve as though it was the end of the rope that had kept him captive for so long. “Then we’ll go somewhere you’ll see yourself more clearly.”

Brienne led Jaime out of the corridor and into the frigid night. They tramped past the kitchens and the slumped wall of the Kingspyre tower, beyond the foul-smelling buttery and into the small, dark courtyard that formed the inner ward. He’d thought they were heading for the walls- they’d had a few meaningful conversations upon battlements, after all- but Brienne turned left before they could reach the stairs, and Jaime realised their true destination.

“You really think a bath is the solution to all that ails me?”

“Perhaps I want you to smell better before we continue this discussion.”

“As if you don’t stink just as bad.”

“That’s why I’d like a bath. You can return to our companions if you’d rather remain dirty and cold.” With that, Brienne stomped off.

With Bronn and Clegane’s drunken company as the alternative, entering the mouldering bathhouse with all its memories of fever and brutal honesty seemed more appealing. It was a close thing, though. He followed her, as he suspected she knew he would.

The door was locked, but the wood had rotted through over the course of winter, so Brienne kicked it aside like so much parchment. Stagnant air assaulted Jaime’s nostrils immediately, but this faded as they descended towards the heated pools on the floor below, guided by the light from their twin swords. After lighting the sconces that still held enough wax to keep a flame and their vision had a chance to adjust to the dim lighting, the rest of the cavern came into view. The water seemed fresh enough and steamed invitingly, fed as it was from subterranean hot springs.

Movement to Jaime’s right spurred him to turn to Brienne, who was busy removing her armour at an impressive speed. She’d always been efficient, but she moved with a practiced ease that told him she’d recently grown accustomed to removing her own. Had she not taken on a new squire after Podrick was knighted?

Jaime was not so skilled. The purloined clothes and armour he wore fitted poorly, and the knots had grown tighter in the time since he’d last taken them off to wash half-heartedly in a brook as they entered the Riverlands.

His eyes met Brienne’s, and there was a moment of familiar tension as she stared at the Gordian knot that had formed at his throat. He wondered if those strong fingers might rise and attempt to untangle the strings as they had that night in Winterfell-

In a flash of red and gold, Brienne had raised Oathkeeper and sliced through the thick cords holding together his plate armour, and with a second swing, she had cut the hopelessly knotted string tying his shirt closed at his throat. He stared at her, incredulous.

“You have new clothes now,” she reminded him, matter of fact, as though she hadn’t just wielded Valerian steel within an inch of his throat. “Those should be burned anyway. I can see the lice from here.” Then she turned back to the water and lifted her own shirt above her head.

Jaime made a sound akin to choking and spun to face the wall.

What the _fuck_ had just happened?

“I’ll uh, I’ll just wait here until you’re done.” He heard Brienne scoff and the sound of fabric hitting the floor. “Don’t make those sow’s noises, I’m trying to protect your modesty here.”

“Well it’s a bit late for that.”

Jaime began shucking off his own trousers as fast as he could. It was a shame she hadn’t sliced those ties too. “Well, I’m going to stay facing this way, and I’d be thankful if you’d look away too.”

“Gods forbid you should be reminded of how unsatisfactory I am with my clothes off.”

“You're being ridiculous.” With the oversized shirt still covering his modesty, Jaime swung around to see Brienne slip beneath the water, face red. So she was embarrassed at allowing that last comment past her lips, was she? “Do you ever consider that maybe things aren’t always about _you,_ about _your_ insecurities? At least the reflection that you hate is your own.”

Brienne stilled, the water she had disturbed lapping against her rigid, scarred shoulders. She was like the isle whose name she bore, a rugged, storm-battered vision that promised solace for a drowning man if only he could fight the current and swim towards her. Jaime had never been good at saving himself, but watching her falter before him now, he wished that wasn’t the case.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Brienne murmured. “I didn’t bring you here to fight.”

“Good. We did quite enough of that with the swords.”

Brienne nodded once before she ducked beneath the water, heading for the far side of the pool. Jaime removed his shirt and followed, taking care not to look at the dark surface lest he catch a glimpse of his face.

When he sank into the heat of the pool, he almost forgot to care. After what felt like a lifetime of being cold and dirty and aching- well, it _had_ sort of been a lifetime, he supposed- the caress of the hot water was like strong wine on an empty stomach. A shiver rippled down his spine, and he felt lightheaded. When it seemed as though his muscles would liquefy, Jaime paddled to the bench near Brienne and settled onto the smooth stone.

He knew that she had her reasons for bringing him down here, and that sooner or later they would become apparent. But, for now, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy the warmth and forget the responsibilities that awaited him in the world above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally here. THE BATH SCENE. I've been buzzing to write this since I started on this salty quest. Next up is a Brienne chapter...


	11. Brienne IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And death shall have no dominion. ___  
>  _Dead men, naked they shall be one ___  
>  _With the man in the wind and the west moon; ___  
>  _When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, ___  
>  _They shall have stars at elbow and foot; ___  
>  _Though they go mad they shall be sane, ___  
>  _Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; ___  
>  _Though lovers be lost, love shall not; ___  
>  _And death shall have no dominion. ___  
>  __  
>  _-And Death Shall Have No Dominion, ___  
>  _Dylan Thomas ___  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited bath scene redux with a healthy dose of Dylan Thomas inspiration. Once again his poetry sums Jaime’s Season 8 themes better than I can.

# Brienne IV

Brienne was convinced she had made the right decision in bringing Jaime to the bathhouse when she watched the lines of his face dissolve as he lay back in the hot water. He basked like a lion in the sun, uninhibited and unrepentant in his relief.

With his eyes closed, Brienne was free to study his features in the torchlight without fear of discovery. Bruises were beginning to form on his shoulders from their sparring, and he looked thin, but otherwise, he was far healthier than the last time they had been here.

Strands of that long black hair lay plastered to his cheeks, but Jaime seemed in no rush to move them. Brienne fought the urge to do it herself; to see if those raven locks would feel like the spun gold which had once hung in their place.

Her fingers twitched, but no, she would not disturb him. Difficult conversation lay ahead, and she would leave him to relax in the water until he was ready to break the silence. Brienne started to wash her own hair whilst she waited, taking her impatience out on the snags that had begun to form. She’d been neglecting it lately, too busy helping with the rebuilding King’s Landing to think about cutting it. She’d have to search for shears before they left Harrenhal- never again would she attempt to cut it with Oathkeeper.

“Now, this was an excellent idea,” Jaime sighed after a while. “Far more enjoyable when I’m not delirious with fever.”

“You’ll feel much haler for it,” Brienne promised, and yanked at a particularly tough knot.

“I should hope so. You wounded me quite thoroughly during that sparring match.”

“Then you should defend yourself better, next time.”

Jaime exhaled wearily and began to scrub at his skin with a lump of lye, harder than necessary, leaving it red raw where it was not already purpling. “Brienne, I _can’t_. The war took everything. I’ve got nothing left to give.”

The knot finally gave way, taking a fair tangle of hair with it. Brienne scarcely notice the pain.

“You have your life.”

“What is life worth when all the rest is gone?”

Brienne’s frustration peaked. Baiting him into giving a shit had worked when there was a sword in his hand, but now, stripped of all arms and armour, he was content to accept her barbed words with a bowed head rather than fight back.

The wars between them had left Brienne heartbroken and bruised, but this fight- the one for Jaime’s life- was not one she would surrender. Not when she still carried one last weapon with which to fight his demons, even if it could hurt her in the process. This hadn’t been possible when they were only enemies, but since then, she had come to know him in the most intimate way.

“When you told me Oathkeeper would always be mine, you were talking about more than just a sword. At Winterfell, you told me that I carried a part of you with me. You said it was the best part of you. If that was true, if you meant it, then there’s a part of you that didn’t die with Cersei. It stayed safe, with me. Take that now and use it to make yourself anew.” Jaime flinched at the mention of his sister’s name.

After a moment of deliberation, Brienne leaned across and gripped his face in her hands, forcing him to look up and into her eyes, to see blue and not green. Perhaps it was cruel to invoke her ghost in this way, but if there was one way to get a reaction from Jaime, it was through Cersei. “All your life you’ve been somebody else’s creature. Not anymore. You’re free. Grieve, rage at the unjustness of the universe, do whatever you need to do, but find a way to live again. It won’t be easy, and you’ll make mistakes, but they’ll yours alone. _Live,_ Jaime.”

Since he’d walked into through the door of the White Sword Tower and back into her life, there had been something fragile about the way he held himself, like twine fraying from carrying too much weight.

That cord snapped, now.

Through the steam rising between their bodies, Brienne saw tears build in Jaime’s eyes. She watched in silence as they spilled over and rolled down his cheeks. When they hit the water, the sound echoed throughout the cavern. The silence that followed was uncomfortably loud.

Brienne shuffled along the bench and then, for the first time in months, Jaime was in her arms.

She suspected this was not the first time he had cried for all that he had lost, but it was the first time he had allowed himself to grieve in front of another human soul. There was an important distinction between those situations. Only one allowed him the comfort he so desperately needed.

Time seemed to hold no dominion in that cavern. Brienne did not know for how long Jaime trembled in her embrace, gasping like a man saved from drowning, only that she was able to replay every tender moment that had ever passed between them before he spoke again.

“I don’t know where to begin.” Jaime’s words were muffled against her neck, but she thought he had stopped weeping.

Brienne grit her teeth and ground out the words to keep her own voice from wavering. “Start at the beginning. Start with a sword.”

“I was dreadful today. I’m too weak.”

“You’re stronger than Pod was when I started training him, and now he’s a knight of the Kingsguard.” 

“That took years. We have months, at most.” It ached, seeing him like this, reduced to his insecurities. She’d have slain Drogon herself if it could have spared Jaime this fate.

“Pod couldn’t even hold a sword at the start, but you’ve already learned it twice over. You will pick it up quicker this time.”

Jaime sat up then, leaning back far enough that he could stare at Brienne. She cursed herself for the disappointment that followed the loss of his touch and shuffled further away.

“You really believe that I can overcome this.” The statement was loaded with Jaime’s usual derisive sarcasm- proof that he was recovering from his moment of vulnerability already, or ashamed of it, at least- but there was an undertone of wonder that she could not miss.

After every war came the task of rebuilding, and Brienne become all too familiar with that chore in recent moons. But castles were easier to mend than people. Masonry did not resist. Timber was not as stubborn as Jaime.

“You said you _were_ your sword hand, and yet learned to live without that, in time.”

“It was easier to accept that loss when I watched it rot beneath my nose for weeks.” A shudder ran through the both of them in tandem. “It’s strange to think those bones might lie so close whilst the rest of me rots beneath rubble and dragon skulls.”

“Jaime…” Brienne spoke with great hesitance, unsure whether to tell him this. She should dismiss his morbid musings and move on, but he had said himself that accept his new identity, he had to come to terms with the loss of the old one. “You- your body. It was recovered. Tyrion made sure you had a good burial.”

Jaime raised his head sharply. “What?”

“Though Tyrion was imprisoned, Ser Davos managed to retrieve you and Cersei- your bodies- after Daenerys fell.” She stumbled over the words. It was not easy to speak to a man of his own corpse. “The graves are unnamed, but it was a proper burial in a copse just outside of the city. You’re buried together, facing West- facing home and the sunset, Tyrion said.”

Jaime did not answer.

“I’m sorry. I should not have mentioned it.”

“No. No, I’m glad you did. I’m just surprised there was anything left to bury, what with the amount of rock that fell.” It was not one of Jaime’s better jests, his usual lazy drawl sounding hollow to her ears.

“Tyrion said that when he found you both, he almost believed you to be sleeping, considering how, ah, intact you were.” Brienne grimaced. She’d hoped to help Jaime come to terms with his death, but she had anticipated how it would affect her to relive it. In her mind’s eye, she saw the terrible image of the Lannister twins, painfully beautiful but stiff and cold, covered in dust and locked in one final embrace. She knew it would haunt her for the rest of her life- almost as much as the knowledge that if he had been standing three feet to the left, then perhaps he would not have died at all.

Jaime’s voice dragged her back from the rabbit hole of what-if and back to the reality where he had survived, but in a very different manner. “You look like you want to hit something. I do hope it isn’t me.”

“I’ve given you quite enough bruises for one night.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been waiting for you to take your anger and hatred out on me physically; it will be less painful than your disapproving glares.”

Ah. So this was what it came down to, in the end.

“Jaime, I don’t hate you.” She looked him dead in the eye, so he knew she was not lying. His self-loathing, so poorly disguised by his half-hearted japes, would not claim his life this time around. “I’m not even angry at you, anymore. I’m...frustrated.”

“I’m sure Tormund will be more than happy to help with that once we’re past the wall.”

“Piss off. You know I don’t mean _that_.”

Jaime at least had the good grace to look contrite. “Forgive me. What do you mean, then?”

“I’m glad you’re alive, Jaime. Any ill will I may have held for you passed as soon as I heard news of your fate. Your death was a _tragedy,_ and the hardest loss I have ever endured. I was finally healing when Tyrion brought me your sword, and then you arrived days later. I was glad you were alive,” she repeated, “but you had terrible timing.”

“I suppose I have always had a penchant for dramatic entrances.”

“You also have a talent for turning my world upside down.”

“I truly am sorry that I derailed the new life you had built for yourself.”

Brienne sighed. “I hadn’t built it for myself. Not really. The world was in such turmoil that I just accepted what came. We all did, I think. That’s how Bran ended up as King.”

“You didn’t want to be Kingsguard?” Jaime didn’t sound surprised, how could he be, when his own opinions of the order were so jaded?

“It’s not so much a matter of want. It was something I never even thought of, after Renly. But when it was in front of me, I couldn’t say no.”

“What changed?”

When Brienne had brought Jaime to these baths, it had been with the intention of helping him overcome his own problems, not revealing hers. How could she be honest him without fully revealing her hand? She was not ready for everything that would entail just yet.

She decided to employ another tactic she had recently learned from Tyrion and steer the conversation in a different direction with a sharp turn into philosophy. 

“The whole world has changed. In the wake of such chaos, how could anything stay the same?”

“My father had many thoughts about chaos and opportunity, as did Littlefinger. I don’t think this was the outcome they were hoping for.” Brienne almost smiled at that. Two of the most powerful men in the world, and both had met their ends at the hands of those they had considered pawns. No, they would not have been happy with the way the world had ended and begun again. Jaime’s thoughts were along the same lines. “I think the closest one to a winner in this war is Sansa, and she did her fair share of learning from a cruel variety of teachers,” he mused. “I wish they still around to see what she was able to achieve in spite of their scheming.”

“I told you that you hadn’t met many girls like her.”

“She’s grown into a truly formidable woman. Imagine what you could have achieved together had you stayed in Winterfell.”

Brienne was glad that the heat of the baths had already turned her skin so red, for she knew it would have erupted in an ugly blush at those words.

“I would have, if I could. But she bade me stay with her brother. Starks don’t do well in King’s Landing, she said.”

“Another oath you’re breaking,” Jaime said, without a hint of a sneer. He sounded very sad.

“I’ve come to understand that sometimes, to do what is right, it cannot be helped.” That admission, from her, felt at monumental as Jaime’s confession so many years ago. It was a truth she had begun to discover even then, and had continued to learn throughout their acquaintance, right up to the moment she heard the details of his death. “ _‘They make you swear and swear. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow for another.’_ You said those words the first time we met. I did not understand at the time.” She did now. And the weight of it was crushing.

“I remember.” His voice was low and, in any other situation, she might even have said _sultry._ “Catelyn Stark then swore that you were a truer knight than I would ever be.”

“She might have seen me as a knight, but she was wrong about you.”

Unable to bear the weight of emotion in Jaime’s eyes, she ducked her head beneath the water to rinse the oils from her hair. When she surfaced, Jaime was still staring. She stared back.

“This is the most we’ve spoken since I…returned.” Since he _left_ , she knew he meant.

“It is.”

“We’re not fighting anymore.”

“Do you want to be?”

“No. This is nice.”

“Yes, it is.” Brienne fought another urge to smile. She was doing a lot of that tonight. What they were doing now; Jaime making mundane observations stating the bloody obvious, was familiar territory. Safe, comfortable, mildly irritating territory. It meant he was feeling a little more like himself again. Tonight’s mission might just have been a success after all.

Jaime’s fingers skimmed the surface of the water, disrupting the layer of steam roiling there. The combination of firelight and heated flesh made the pale skin look almost golden again. “How about we call another truce?”

Brienne snorted, amused. “Jaime, this has been a truce since we left King’s Landing.”

“Oh.” Jaime’s hand stilled. He seemed disappointed. Had he hoped their relationship could improve beyond what it was now with something so fragile as words spoken between them? She had forgiven him, yes, but the healing would take time yet. “But, trust-”

“I thought you knew. There’s less name-calling than when we travelled as enemies.”

“You make a fair point. I’m sorry, by the way. I was very unkind.”

“Yes, you were. But so was I, at times.”

In this very pool, each of them had said cruel things to the other. In this pool, their first truce had been called. Brienne knew that the significance of this was not lost on either of them, despite everything monumental thing that had transpired since.

“If we are no longer enemies, does that mean we can be friends?” Jaime busied himself with brushing back some of the black hair that had fallen around his face so he did not have to look her in the eye. “We rather skipped that phase the last time, and I should very much like another chance.”

 _Friends_. The way he spoke made it sound as though friendship with Jaime Lannister was any less perilous than being his enemy; as if it would not still require her to place her heart in a blacksmith’s vice.

But he was no longer Jaime Lannister, she recalled. No more would houses and loyalty and duty divide them, positioned as they were on the same side of this new conflict. Perhaps friendship with Jaime Prince, or any other silly name he thought up next, would not be such a fantastic and treacherous thing.

It didn’t matter, in the end. To her, he would always be just Jaime. And Jaime, she understood. Jaime, she trusted.

Brienne smiled, stood, and started for the stone steps. When she turned back, Jaime was still staring at her, silently begging for an answer.

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited to write this bath redux scene, but it took longer to reach a point that I was happy with it than I expected. It was SO hard to make it echo the original while still *being* original. I'm not completely satisfied, but I can't spend any longer playing with it. Sound off in the comments and let me know how I did.
> 
> Also, I've updated the expected chapter count. It's not 100% certain, but this chapter marks the end of the first of three story arcs, so it's a fair guess.


	12. Brienne V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If I fall short_  
>  _If I break rank_  
>  _It's a bloodsport_  
>  _But I understand_  
>  _I am all yours_  
>  _I am a man_  
>  _I'm on all fours_  
>  _Willingly down_
> 
> _Although you love me, sometimes with me_  
>  _Things can get ugly but we're still a team_  
>  _We are an army, that breaks from within_  
>  _But that's why we're stronger, and that's how we'll win_
> 
> _I've got your back and though it's stacked against us_  
>  _I've got your hand, it's us against consensus_  
>  _And I will burn the people who hurt you the worst_  
>  _And I will not learn_
> 
> _-Bloodsport,_  
>  _Raleigh Ritchie_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this, blame NaNoWriMo *cries in writer*

# BRIENNE V

Tomorrow came and went, as did the day after that, and the day after that. Every night, Jaime would ask Brienne if she had considered his friendship, and every night she would respond in the same way.

“Fight me for it.”

Though she tried to remember to keep her guard up, each clash of Valerian steel chipped away a little piece of the armour he had forged against Jaime’s charms.

 _He left you,_ she told herself over and over. _He had his reasons,_ the swords would sing.

Whilst Brienne’s resolve faltered, Jaime’s strength grew. With the proper clothing and good food they had picked up at Harrenhal, the morale of the whole party improved, but it was in him that the greatest change could be witnessed. Warm and well-fed, he began to put on weight again. The nights were too cold to forgo a fire, and so they made the most of the risk and cooked hot meals for dinner. Each night they sparred as the meat roasted, and he’d become so exhausted that he’d eat enough for two and fall straight into a deep sleep without a trace of nightmares.

During the daytime, the party began to form into a familiar shape. Jaime and Brienne rode ahead with Pod and Bronn behind, chatting amicably. The Hound brought up the rear, muttering darkly to his horse all the while. It was peaceful in its own strange way.

They passed from the Six Kingdoms into the North with little difficulty. Although the ground was boggy, the going was quick as they were able to stick to the Kingsroad by day. The North’s independence had reduced the need for travel between the kingdoms, and besides, too many Northern houses had gone extinct in the Wars to maintain much of a watch on their lands. The stretch of country between the Crossroads Inn and Moat Cailin flashed beneath the horses’ hooves in a muddle of brown and grey, and when they stopped each night, it was often in the shelter of abandoned crofts.

That was until one night, as darkness threatened and they had yet to come across any suitable place to make camp, the unmistakable shape of an inn appeared on the horizon.

Unsurprisingly, Bronn was the first to plead that they stop there for the night, citing his need for a bath.

“You don’t care about having a bath,” Brienne snapped back. “If you did, you’d have made use of the hot springs at Harrenhal.”

“Fine, I don’t, but I thought you’d be more inclined to allow me to wash than fuck.”

“We’re not going to risk getting captured just so you can spend the night with a whore warming your bed.”

“Of course not. There’ll be at least three whores involved, and probably no bed.”

What Brienne hadn’t expected was for Jaime to agree.

“Bronn’s plans aside, it would be worth the danger to gain some understanding of what is happening in King’s Landing. We’ve been completely isolated and have no idea how the King has reacted to your disappearance. Continuing blindly north carries an even greater risk than spending the night at an inn.”

As much as Brienne wanted to be angry for being disagreed with, she was greatly relieved that Jaime’s instincts as a commander seemed to be returning. This was the first time he had demonstrated any form of leadership since returning from the dead. For that reason alone, she relented. “Fine, we’ll go to the inn. But no whores. The fewer people that take notice of us, the better.”

“Don’t worry Ser Brienne, I’m very skilled at making sure women _don’t_ remember me. Don’t want them finding me later to try and pass their bastards off as mine now, do I?”

Brienne rolled her eyes and turned to Jaime for sympathy, but he only grinned in delight. “It’s true. I’ve heard he’s extremely unremarkable when it comes to the art of lovemaking, unlike our Podrick.”

“I might not have a magic cock, but at least I have all my fingers,” Bronn countered, releasing the reins to wave his hands in Jaime’s direction. “Must be hard to please a woman when you’re a few digits short. What’s your opinion on the matter, Lord Commander?”

Brienne watched as Jaime’s expression turned from jovial to furious in a heartbeat. Beside her, she heard Pod’s sharp intake of breath as he prepared to defend her. Brienne felt herself blush so strongly that it left her a little dizzy, but refused to let Bronn’s implication rattle her further.

“It’s my opinion, Ser Bronn, that a man who fixates on the talents of others must be highly insecure about his own.”

“Well said,” growled the Hound, “now can we stop talking shit and get to the inn? I’m starving and I want some chicken.”

And so, with faces hastily covered by hoods and scarves, they made for the inn. Jaime and Pod still glared at Bronn whilst Brienne tried to calm her thundering heart. She’d been on better terms with Jaime since Harrenhal, but Bronn’s reminder of their previous relationship had shaken their fragile new acceptance of each other as friends. It had clearly upset him too, for she had not seen him to angry in a long time.

With the Riverlands still suffering the aftermath of winter and war, and the famine they both fostered, the inn was almost empty when they arrived. This was favourable because there were fewer people to recognise them- fewer eyes for Bran to see through, but they were more likely to be noticed by the few patrons there were.

Bronn immediately peeled off from the group and began speaking to a woman leaning over the bar and displaying so much cleavage that Pod’s eyes were almost falling out of his head. Between that and the roast chicken that arrived soon after, his bad mood dissipated, but Jaime’s endured. Brienne was almost tempted to make conversation with the Hound to try and dispel the tension, but could not stand the thought of seeing any more masticated chicken than was already visible as he chewed.

Instead, she tried to listen in on what the other patrons were talking about. They had, after all, come here to gather intelligence. Whilst their conversation between the men at the table behind did not yield anything interesting, the serving girl proved to be more useful.

Brienne called her over under the guise of asking for more ale, and asked her why the inn was so unusually quiet.

“King’s got men crawling all over the place,” she said conspiratorially. “People be scared to leave their homes at night a case they don’t make it home again.”

“Do you know why?”

“I don’t know nothin’, ‘cept its bad for business. Still, I’ve heard the Queen in the North is headin’ our way soon enough. If her royal highness wants a warm bed for the night, she’ll ‘ave to stay here, and we’ll be able to charge a pretty penny for it.”

“Queen Sansa is travelling South?” Brienne exclaimed, earning a frown from the serving girl.

“Right along the Kingsroad they says, with all haste. Some says she’s visiting her brother the king because he’s sick, others say she’s gonna steal his throne. I don’t care what it is, so long as it fixes the mess the wars have left us in.”

“Her Grace no doubt has the best interests of the people at heart.”

“Aye, but whose people? Hers or us?”

The serving girl left to take a plate of bread and cheese upstairs, and Brienne stared into the mug of ale she’d left behind.

What in the name of the Gods was Sansa doing travelling South? The last time Brienne had spoken to her, she’d sworn she’d never come south of the Neck again. As for the King being ill, he’s been in perfect health when she had left, at least physically. Had something changed since then? Whatever the case, it made Brienne uneasy. The smallfolk were clearly no happier with their new King than they had been with the previous monarchs, and it was easy to see why. No effort had been made to restore the land past the walls of King’s Landing, and trade was still crippled by lack of men and resources despite the lift on embargoes. Farms had lost their workers and their crops, traders had lost their wagons and their buyers. There was simply not enough to go around, and no supply lines in place even if there had been.

In breaking the wheel, the clashes of Kings and Queens had broken the world.

Brienne was torn from her musings upon hearing a word that had not been uttered in her presence in moons.

“The girls weren’t fighting over _you,_ Cail, your cock can’t start a war. You’re not the fucking Kingslayer.”

 _Kingslayer._ Brienne’s blood turned to ice. There was only one other table of patrons here, so there was little mystery in who had uttered the word.

“All hail the Dragon Queen,” somebody slurred. “She might have been mad, but at least she rid us of that oathbreaking cunt and his evil sister.”

“Good riddance!” the other men cheered.

As their tankards clinked together, Brienne stood and placed a hand on her sword. In three long strides she was at their table and looming over them in a manner she knew made men feel uncomfortable.

“Gentleman,” she said with a sneer that made it clear she did not find them to be worthy of the title. “It’s bad manners to speak ill of the dead.”

Everyone at the table laughed. The one who had spoken first, the one who had been insulting Cail, tipped his chair back on two legs and started to pick his teeth with a dirty finger. “Get your head out of your arse, the dead can’t hear us. Wish he could, though. I’d like to tell him what I think of him.”

_If only they knew._

“Jaime Lannister was a man of honour,” Brienne spat. “He saved King’s Landing from the ire of the Mad King, defended Winterfell against the wights in the Long Night, and gave his life to protect his Queen. He was a good man, and should be remembered as such.”

“Were you in love with him or something?” the tooth-picker jibed.

A light seemed to spark in the blonde one’s head. “You know- I think she might have been.” This must be Cail- the one that thought he was the Gods’ gift to women. His eyes were glazed as he drunkenly pointed at Brienne. “I know you- the Kingslayer’s whore. I saw you at the siege of Riverrun.”

Brienne was joined by somebody else before she could deny her identity and undo the mistake she had made by drawing attention to herself. Jaime stood beside her now, sword in hand. Though the blade was not aflame, the man himself was practically incandescent with fury.

“This is Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. You’ll speak to her with respect.”

The drunk soldier did not know to be afraid of this pale stranger. “I’ll show respect when to someone who’s earned it, not fucked the Kingslayer to cop a knighthood and a fancy sword.” Then, he spat at Jaime’s feet.

There was a commotion behind Brienne as several bodies moved. She threw out an arm in an attempt to hold her friends back, but she wasn’t fast enough. Jaime that thundered forwards and ploughed his left fist into the speaker’s face.

The man fell backwards, and his head cracked against the stone floor of the tavern. Despite the fact that he was clearly knocked out, Jaime followed and began hitting him again, and again, and again.

He may not be a lion any longer, but he most certainly still had claws. 

“Seven above!” Cail shouted, rushing to help his friend but stumbling to the floor in the process. Brienne had intended to drag Jaime away from his victim, but upon seeing that his would-be assailant had managed to get a hand on his sword, she turned her attention to him instead. To her left, the Hound growled and jumped into the fray.

There were six men to their four, but the brawl was over in less than a minute. Brienne’s company was sober, and fuelled by righteous indignation to boot. At least, Brienne knew the fighting was over. Jaime did not appear to understand this yet, for his left hand was still wrapped firmly around the throat of the man who had insulted Brienne.

“Jaime!” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. “Let him go. You don’t need to kill him.”

“He’s doesn’t deserve the breath in his lungs.” Jaime pressed harder. Brienne gripped his forearm so tightly it made her fingers hurt.

“It doesn’t matter. _He_ doesn’t matter.” With her free arm, she grabbed his chin and turned his face to hers. “Let it go,” she begged.

Jaime blinked a few times, then something shifted in his eyes. His breathing evened out and he released the unconscious man beneath his hand.

“I don’t need to kill him.” The notion seemed completely foreign to Jaime. Instincts honed by years spent at war and in the service of an unforgiving mistress had not been lost along with his body.

“No, you don’t.” Brienne took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “We need to leave before they wake up.” _If they wake up,_ she thought. The man Jaime had attacked didn’t have much chance of that. He was in worse shape than most of the wights they’d fought at Winterfell.

She would have to worry about that later. Right now, they needed to put as much distance as possible between themselves and this place.

Still holding Jaime’s sleeve, Brienne turned to search for the rest of her friends. She could only find Pod, looking pale under the blood that pooled from a cut on his forehead. Other than that, he did not seem to have been harmed.

“Where’s Sandor?” He’d been right beside her a moment ago, but now the Hound was nowhere to be seen.

“I think he went to fetch Bronn?”

Brienne cut a cleanish strip of cloth from the tunic of the man Jaime had beaten and handed it to Pod. “Wrap your head up. Let’s prepare to leave.”

Just as they were finishing saddling the horses, Bronn and the Hound came out of the inn. Their swords shone crimson and Bronn was weighing a bulging purse in his hand. Brienne’s heart sunk.

“What’ve you done?”

The Hound at least looked uncomfortable as he wiped the blood from his blade, but Bronn was concerned only with the purse in his hand.

“Thanks to you two fucking idiots, they knew who we were. The King might not have witnessed that directly, but as soon as we were out of range of the Gods’ magic, he’d have been able to draw upon their memories and find out what happened. You put this mission in jeopardy, and we fixed it. If you’re not going to thank us, then just keep your thoughts to yourselves.”

“You don’t care for thanks; you’ve got the reward you wanted.” Jaime nodded at the purse. He seemed to be recovering from whatever fit had seized him in the tavern.

“What part of _sellsword_ don’t you understand? I don’t do charity.”

“You’ve all the wealth of Highgarden. You didn’t need to rob the corpses of innkeeps and serving girls.”

“We didn’t kill the women _or_ the innkeeper,” the Hound mumbled. “They didn’t know who we were.”

“That’s something, I suppose. But _nobody_ should have died.” Brienne glared at Sandor, Bronn and Jaime in turn. Jaime looked devastated, Sandor seemed proud of the restraint he had showed, and Bronn just rolled his eyes as he wiped the blood from his blade.

“You should have thought of that before you got in an argument. Can we stop debating the ethics of this and go? We’ll have to ride through the night now to get away from here.”

* * *

They didn’t stop for several hours, when they found a burned-out crofter’s cottage which would hide their fire from the prying eyes of men and ravens. Brienne couldn’t help but wish she’d fought harder against Bronn’s insistence that they find a tavern, and just slept here the in the first place. They’d have ended up with less problems and a lot more sleep. She was exhausted and ready to collapse, but before she had a chance to unpack her bedroll, Pod took her aside and asked to speak with her in confidence.

He led her out of the cottage and round the back to the lean-to where cattle must once have been kept. It offered some shelter from the wind, but it was still bitterly cold.

“We need to talk about what happened back at the inn,” he told her, back ramrod straight and hands trembling. 

“Are you concerned about meeting Sansa’s party coming south? They should still be a few days ride away, and we’ll move away from the Kingsroad in the morning.” They would be at Winterfell itself in less than half a moon’s turn, and Brienne was somewhat anxious herself.

“I’m not talking about that. I mean the fight.”

“The men that died? That was _very_ unfortunate, and I regret-”

“No, Brienne, I’m concerned about _you._ ”

Brienne startled. Podrick never interrupted her. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You threatened this mission by revealing your identity to defend Jaime’s name. Then, he got into a fight to defend yours. People _died_ because of it- we might have done, too. I understand that you have to be civil to Jaime for the good of the realm, but why were you so determined to defend the Kingslayer after what he did to you?”

“Podrick, that is none of your concern.”

“Pardon me, Brienne, but it is. I’ve followed your orders without question so far, but now that I’m worried for both you and the success of the mission, I’d be a poor knight if I didn’t raise those concerns.”

Pod had grown so much from that naïve boy who’d stubbornly followed her out of Kings’ Landing so many years ago. It was because of this that Brienne tamped down her instinct to tell him to keep his nose out of her personal life. Also, because he had been the only one that had not questioned why Jaime her left her; only held her tight as they both cried after the news of his death reached them. 

Jaime had hurt Pod too when he’d left without a goodbye. After they’d made it through the entirety of the Long Night together, guarding each other’s backs and risking life and limb for one another, it had felt like they were almost like a family.

“Podrick…” Brienne forced herself to meet his eyes. He looked scared, but determined. “What passed between Jaime and me as man and woman does not affect our partnership as knights. He may have made mistakes as a lover, but as a brother in arms, even as a friend, he has never failed me.”

“But he left you.” _Left us,_ she hears though he does not say it. “And you _still_ love him as a woman loves a man.”

Before the fight in the tavern, she’d have argued that it wasn’t true. But the evidence of her lingering affection was clear for anyone that knew her to see.

“An unfortunate detail which I am endeavouring to ignore. I’d be grateful if you did too.”

She watched as Pod visibly wrestled with the urge to disagree, but eventually settles on saying, “if he ever hurts you like that again, I’ll kill him.”

Brienne placed a hand on Pod’s arm and squeezed it gently. It was more fondness that she’d usually show, but he’s seen so clearly through all her other ruses tonight that there seemed little point in holding back now.

“We’re fighting on the same side, now. If he betrays me, he betrays the cause, and I’ll kill him myself.”

“Please just be careful, Brienne. I know there are things that you aren’t telling me, and that’s fine, but you _can_ trust me.”

“The only secrets I’m keeping are on someone else’s behalf.”

Pod’s snort of derision tells her he knows exactly who they belong to. “Jaime Lannister’s secrets cost lives and start wars.” With that enigmatic statement, Pod left her alone in the abandoned barn.

“We’ve all been spending too much time with Tyrion,” Brienne muttered to herself, annoyed that her former squire has the one putting her in her place, but also worried that he might be right.

Jaime Lannister might be no more, but the consequences of his actions would permeate the realm for many years to come. If the Gods had resurrected Jaime Prince had to correct those mistakes, then she might not be able to hold her tongue forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I've come to the conclusion that I will never be over the end of GoT, and so, I refuse to acknowledge that it is actually the end. All aboard the technically canon-compliant, yet extremely salty, season 9 fix-it. I mean, YOU CAN'T PROVE THIS DOESN'T HAPPEN.


End file.
